Holiday
by Aalon
Summary: The third tale in 'The Wonder' AU, this story picks up four months after the conclusion of 'Hunt the Hunter', rejoining Kate Beckett, circa Season 6. Estranged from Richard Castle, the former detective/federal agent is on a different path that ultimately will bring her full circle with the writer.
1. Chapter 1

**Holiday – Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

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 **A/N:** Hello again. This is the third story in the Wonder AU. It is a sequel to Hunt the Hunter. I know it has been a while since I have posted anything new. I did write a couple of stories that – for different reasons – I decided to discard and not post. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this story that, one that has been quite a while coming.

You might recall that Season 6 began with an episode called Valkyrie – where Castle and Kate were newly-engaged. This was the first episode after the Watershed episode that ended Season 5. In this episode that opened Season 6, following Watershed, Richard Castle was exposed to a deadly toxin. In this AU, however, Valkyrie has a very different meaning, as we discovered at the end of Hunt the Hunter; and Castle and Beckett are far from engaged.

A quick warning – if you have **not** read The Wonder, and Hunt the Hunted, please stop now and read those two stories first. For those who have read both stories – and have fantastic memories and remember where we left off – I apologize for waiting 23 months to continue this saga. I admit, I intentionally wanted to wait a bit before continuing this AU, but not even I thought it would be almost two years.

This story picks up roughly four and a half months after the end of Hunt the Hunter, when Kate Beckett was on a flight that she – at that time – thought was taking her to Russia.

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 _ **December 17, 2013, 8:47 a.m., Somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania: Day 107 of Isolation**_

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The old analog clock sits high on the wall, the familiar tick-tock filling the room with each passing second. It is the only sound heard echoing through the make-shift cell, besides the heavy breathing of the woman performing push-ups on the floor.

It is early in the morning, but she is beginning this morning – as she has for the past one hundred and seven days – with a now familiar and comfortable exercise regimen. The sweat from her brow drops to the floor below, mingling with the sweat that drops from her chin. Her beautiful features have an edge to them.

Her home for these past three-plus months has been this expansive, man-made room, carved into a cave high in the Carpathian Mountains in Romania. A large metal door contains her in her cell – one with no bars, and natural rock formations for walls. The room remains somewhat dark, with only a single row of soft lights built into the floor along the far wall opposite the large door providing illumination for the room. The walls are jagged, from the natural mountain interior. Along one of the walls are the counts, the stick and slash markings that Kate Beckett has written on the wall to reflect each passing day – to give herself some understanding of the time that has elapsed since her 'incarceration'.

She breathes hard into the floor as she pushes herself up, then down, up, then down, counting off each movement. Despite the lights on the floor, the room would be far darker if not for the five video monitors that are overhead, embedded in the surrounding walls of her 'home'.

When she first entered this dwelling that has been housed her for the latter part of the year, she figured these monitors would be her 'friend', keeping her in touch with the outside world. She had stared at the dark, black screens – waiting for them to come on – assuming she would be kept company with feeds from CNN or some other news feed from around the world.

Instead – to her horror – Elena had kept her word. Oh, had she kept her word . . .

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 **(FLASHBACK: 107 Days ago on September 1** **st** **, 2013 in Romania)**

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Kate Beckett stands along the jagged ledge of the mountain, some six thousand feet above sea level, glancing down at the forest of trees spread out before her, leading down to the village over a mile below. The village that had been her home for the past month. She breathes in the clean, clear air. For a moment, she closes her eyes, taking in the sounds of her surroundings high up in the mountains. She turns and glances upward, knowing that the tall mountainous structures stretch high above, at least another two thousand or so feet. She turns her gaze back downward, to the village below. Her mind replays the past month.

For thirty days – as Elena Markov had promised – Kate has undergone easily what has been the most rigorous training of her life. College athletics, the police academy – both paled in comparison to the arduous routine that Elena and her crew have put her through for the past four weeks. And now, just when she was expecting to be placed on a plane and headed back to the United States . . . back to New York . . .

Back to him . . .

Instead, Elena handed her a pre-packed backpack and no explanation. The two of them had headed up the brown and green paths up into the mountains that rise high over the small town; mountains that Kate has – for the past month – stared at in awe and wonder. Four hours later, after zig-zagging their way upward, avoiding the brown bears that inhabit the area, they arrived here at this point, this ledge overlooking the valley below.

The opening in the mountain behind this ledge – with the parallel and perpendicular lines far to geometrically perfect to be natural – have already told Kate that her training is far from over. She glances into the darkness of the cave, recognizing it for what it is, and realizing that only one of them will be making the trek back down the mountain . . . and it won't be her.

She turns back, her eyes now open again as she glances out over the darkness that has only now begun to creep in, as the sun has now dropped below the horizon. A quick chill raises goosebumps on her arms – arms that are covered by a long-sleeved shirt and a fairly heavy coat. She knows it is not the cool air, but rather the sound of the wolves howling below them that has caused her physical reaction.

She doesn't hear the silent movement of her companion, who now stands beside her. Her voice startles her.

"I should not be able to sneak up on you so easily," Elena tells her, shaking her head with disappointment.

"I . . . well . . ."

Kate allows her words to hang in the air, knowing that there is only one acceptable answer to the statement of fact that Elena has laid out.

"I have no excuse," Kate remarks, repeating a refrain that has been drilled into her for the past month. It has been a military boot camp of sorts. Mornings filled with exercises and physical drills. Afternoons filled with psychological training and historical classes. Evenings spent – surprisingly – in a very relaxed, very casual setting with Samantha, Daria and Regina. Of the almost twenty women that have been in 'training' with her during these weeks, these three women have become more than comrades to her. They have become friends. Their evenings have been filled with smiles, laughter and good eating . . .

. . . Only to be followed by the harsh, physical brutality of the next morning. And through the physical and mental calisthenics of the past month, one thing has been made painfully clear to every woman. There is no room for mistakes, and there are no excuses for those mistakes when they occur.

"No, you do not," Elena reminds her, snapping Kate's attention back to the present moment, here on the ledge, overlooking the world below.

The two women are quiet for a moment before Kate speaks again.

"Why?" she asks. It is a simple question, one that brings a smile to the face of her Russian friend . . . comrade . . . captor . . . she isn't sure what Elena is anymore. Elena knows what she is asking. She is asking why the need for incarceration. Why is she getting ready to be imprisoned? What purpose will it serve?

"Because you are not ready," the Russian replies, matter-of-factly. "Not yet."

Kate merely nods her head, in acceptance if not agreement. The howling just south of them, some four hundred yards to their left causes both women to alter their gaze to the sounds below.

"You're sure you're going to be all right?" Kate asks, and then chuckles as the words leave her mouth. She hears the similar response from the woman standing next to her. Elena ignores this question, choosing instead to answer the original question.

" _Why?"_

"You still assume too much, Sister," Elena begins, using the term that Kate Beckett has – not surprisingly – come to truly appreciate. A term that, for some reason, resonates with her more than any other term that has been placed upon her during her life.

Daughter. Detective. Agent. Best friend. Lover.

Yet 'sister' is the term that has somehow touched her heart in a way that none of the previous designations had been able to do.

"One month ago, you thought we were going to Russia, simply because I told you we were going 'home'," Elena reminds her.

"One month ago, you thought that the reason I was bringing you here was exclusively to train you to avenge your loss," she continues.

"One month ago, you thought this project to be nothing more than some comic-book fantasy-turned-reality, where you were joining a sisterhood of Amazons of sort . . . the kind of thing the author would have come up with," she continues, noticing that Kate still – damn her – flinches at the very mention of the man she left behind in New York.

"Well, it _is_ kind of a sisterhood," Kate argues amiably, folding her arms in front of her chest in mock defiance. Both women smile once again.

"Remember, Kate," Elena remarks as she gently touches Kate Beckett's shoulder, subtly guiding the former detective/federal agent into the darkness of the cavern behind the ledge. Kate subconsciously turns her head – to take one last look at the beautiful world below as the two women walk deeper into the cave. She has no idea how long she will be here.

"Remember - the majority of people, even those closest to you, they will not understand us," Elena begins. "They do not understand _you_. They do not understand that there is something inside you more powerful than the desire to love . . . or be loved."

She helps Kate extract herself from the heavy backpack as she speaks, pulling it off of her back, freeing Beckett's arms. Kate windmills and stretches tired limbs as Elena continues.

"There is a calling inside a person that cannot be satisfied solely with the emotions of love, or with the trust of one's friends and comrades . . . even those you have met here. There is a passion that burns inside a person that supersedes the creature comforts that life affords. You have this calling – this passion. Your mother had it. Her husband – your father – he did not understand this. He did not understand why she would risk her family, her life, for strangers . . . for an ideal."

The tall Russian allows this thought to sink in. She isn't sure whether or not this is even a topic that Kate Beckett has ever let her mind even consider. No matter. It is time now.

"I ask you to spend the next few months thinking about why you are here . . . on this planet . . . in this time period . . . born to the mother you were born to . . . walking through the experiences you have lived through," Elena tells her as she begins to walk toward the opening to the massive cavern. Suddenly, Kate feels a rush of artificial air hit her face, coming from the cavernous walls surrounding her. A soft hum from behind the walls reaches her ears.

It is time.

" _Did she just say 'the next few months?!"_

Elena recognizes the question before it can be asked.

"One hundred and twenty days, Kate," Elena tells her. More or less. History over the past few decades has told us that this is the right number, the right amount of time."

Kate simply stares at the woman, taking in her exotic features, her dark hair. She purses her lips for a few seconds before looking away.

"Did . . . did others face this . . . whatever it is I am going to face?" Kate asks, a bit of hesitation and yes, a bit of fear in her voice. Elena's laughter softens the blow.

"Surely you do not believe that – in the past few months – this space, over a mile above the village below – was carved into these rich mountains just for you, do you?" Elena chuckles.

"I suppose not," Kate replies with a knowing frown.

"Samantha? Regina? Daria?" Kate asks, and her captor knows what she is asking.

"No," Elena replies quickly. "They have a different path to walk."

Kate simply nods her head in affirmation, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself against the sudden cold.

"You?" Kate asks.

Elena turns back to her, now two full steps outside the cavern and blocking the now-diminishing light from outside.

"Yes," she replies simply, and reaches into the edge of a crevice to touch a hidden lever outside the cave. A large metal wall suddenly – and quickly – slides into place, closing the cavern from the outside.

"Good luck, my sister," the Russian says softly under her breath. She hears the wolves singing in the distance, and smiles as she begins her long trek back down the mountains.

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 _ **Back to the Present, December 17, 2013, now 9:03 a.m., in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania: Day 107 of Isolation**_

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Her morning exercises now complete, Kate Beckett walks toward the stainless steel refrigerator built into the cavern. For the umpteenth time since her incarceration, she marvels at the foresight, the planning, the thought-process that went into the building of this cell. While nothing can change the fact that this is a cell and she is a prisoner, she has to admit that they have done all they can to make things more than comfortable.

Modern appliances, from the kitchen area – with a refrigerator, a stove-top range with two burners for cooking, and a large pantry that had been stocked with hundreds of canned goods – vegetables, beans, crackers.

A very comfortable twin bed, with a set of sheets and two heavy blankets. Only one pillow. That had taken some getting used to.

A stand-up shower, and a toilet. In the open. No walls to create individual rooms. Yeah, that had taken some getting used to also. She again smiles at the sheer construction ingenuity to bring plumbing and electricity to these heights.

In fact, if it weren't for the video monitors and open-space toilet, this wouldn't have been too bad, she chuckles to herself - not for the first time.

Yeah, those damn monitors.

She glances upward, once again at the nearest wall, taking in the monitor closest to her. She sees the images displayed, closing her eyes, taking slow deep breaths. The images – at first, all those months ago – initially assaulted her. Her response had been what you would expect; anger, horrification, heart-breaking sadness. She lashed out and cut knuckles, bruised flesh, and broke a bone or two in her hand to escape the madness.

The monitors have – for the past one hundred and three days – been replaying images of her mother – Johanna Beckett lying on the ground, blood seeping from the wound in her lower back. The images play on a constant loop – sometimes as close-ups where you can see the agony on the face of death that paints the once-beautiful woman's features.

Thankfully, those images eventually cease, but the replacements do not illicit any joy either. Initially the images were of one Richard Castle – sitting somewhere in New York City at an author's signing, autographing books and interacting with fans in his own unique way – and yeah, typically for some attractive woman who hangs just a little too closely, for just a second or two too long.

Those images have – over the weeks – given way to videos captured more recently. Richard Castle at lunch with a beautiful blonde – one Kate recognizes. Serena Kaye. And a small child with them.

Other images have followed. Pictures of Richard Castle, standing outside an old demolished pub in the city, the warm smile he shares with an attractive red-headed woman unmistakable as the two watch construction workers rebuild the establishment in front of them.

Still other images of Senator William Bracken – a speech here, a few snapshots there. A few videos with polling numbers rising as a hopeful electorate encourages him to run for the nation's highest office.

And when these images finish cycling?

The crime scene with images of her mother, lying dead on the street, return to the monitors. There is no sound accompanying any of the images, any of the videos. Only the visuals.

She has surprised herself – no, make that she has stunned herself with how far she has come. With how little these images bother her now. Has she simply become immune to their pain? Is she merely numbed to it all? Or has she evolved beyond them? She is not sure.

Brushing such questions aside, she takes out a carton of juice, along with two eggs. As she retrieves the eggs, she stares at the metal back-plate of the refrigerator – the back-plate built into the walls. She can see the perforated edges where – throughout her incarceration – someone has opened the fridge unit from the backside, and restocked her with essentials; milk, juice, eggs and meat. Considering where she is, how high up she is, someone has taken great pains to ensure she is taken care of.

She drops the two eggs into the frying pan, and takes a long swig of orange juice from the carton. She decided early into her time here that there was no need to use the single glass provided her. She drinks everything straight from the carton or the bottle.

Watching the eggs cook, she reaches into her pocket, and retrieves the hand-written letter there. Unfolding it, she reads it again. She has read it literally hundreds of times now – at least once a day, starting in the morning, and sometimes more. The words seem as new, as fresh this morning as they were that first morning so long ago.

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 _Kate –_

 _Your mother is dead. Allow her that peace. Allow yourself that peace. You must move beyond this. It is done._

 _You have a great purpose, but that purpose is paralyzed. It is undiscovered, because you remain stuck in that moment of so long ago. Because of this – you search and search and are never satisfied. You remain in search of something just out of your reach. And when you manage to catch hold of whatever you are chasing, once that chase ends, you are off on your next mission. If you are to become a member of this family – to become my sister – you must be trustworthy. Everyone one of us must know – without question or hesitation that you can see through a mission regardless of its personal cost._

 _Your purpose on this planet is not to avenge your mother – but to prevent such abuse from touching others. To chase your mother's killer is selfish. To prevent it from happening to others is selfless. I beg you – choose the latter. No matter the cost._

 _I promise you, Kate, we will deal with the Senator. You and I. But your motivation cannot be personal. It can never be personal. Know that there are far greater reasons to take this man down than because he killed a single woman – no matter that this woman was your mother; no matter that this woman was a sister in our family. As you reflect on this during your time here, remember my promise to you. The pain from a fall from the lofty heights he is reaching will be unimaginable. And you will witness his fall. You will be there. That is my promise to you._

 _And Kate, never doubt this: I keep my promises._

 _Elena_

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The sudden cranking of machinery – a sound she has longed to hear for months now – startles her out of her reverie. Her head quickly whips to the wall where her stick markings count the days. Elena had told her four months – she is easily a couple of weeks shy of that mark. No matter, if she is getting an early reprieve, she isn't complaining.

She turns the fire off underneath the eggs, and walks briskly – strongly – toward the door that is sliding open. She wears a tank top and sweat pants – her typical exercise clothing. Her newly-toned, muscular frame has changed her movements. She almost glides across the flooring, secure in her footing in the relative darkness. She notices now that the video monitors have shut off, presumably de-activated by the opening of the door.

With the cave now open to the outside, the cold December air rushes in. Surprisingly, it seems to have no effect on the cavern's inhabitant. Her still-beautiful face is, if possible, even more beautiful. No make-up, no added assistance. Just a natural beauty. The hair is longer, in a pony-tail reaching her mid-back. And there is a fire in her hazel-colored eyes that bring a smile to the face of Elena Markov.

"You're early," is all Kate says, and Elena's smile widens.

"It could not be helped," the Russian beauty replies. "There is trouble. In New York. Your immediate presence there is required."

Without a single thought of Richard Castle, of the 12th Precinct . . . without a single thought of Jim Beckett, Kate simply nods her head.

"When do we leave?"

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 **A/N:** So, this begins our new tale in this particular AU. Clearly, we have so far glossed over what transpired between the end of Hunt the Hunter and the beginning of this particular tale. Rest assured, we will fill in the gaps during flashbacks, but after consideration, I thought that to be the best way to tell this story – to focus on the current storyline while using flashbacks to fill in the void.

I hope everyone is staying safe, and has had a good spring. I will post the next chapter sometime this week. And just a reminder – this entire AU is more about the re-birth of Kate Beckett, her finding her way – on her own. What that means for some of her past relationships – particularly that of Richard Castle – remains to be seen. But those of you who know enough about me know that I am a romantic at heart. I just have a wee bit of a dark side when it comes to story-telling :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Holiday – Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

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 **A/N:** Thank you to everyone who is reading, following, adding this story to your favorite lists – and the reviews. They have swung through the full gamut of responses. Some don't like it, and won't read it. I am okay with that, because I realize this storyline is not everyone's cup of tea. There are far too many good stories on this site to waste your time with a storyline you don't care for.

There are others of you, however, who seem to want to stay the course with the story, but aren't very happy with the current state. (smile) For you, I simply ask you to be patient. From the beginning of this arc (back in The Wonder), I warned that this was all about the redemption of Kate Beckett. The question in our minds should be 'redemption from what'? That's the question. But - as I mentioned to _**CWT**_ after a thoughtful review - remember, redemption in any form is not easy; it is hard, it is messy, and it tends to leave a trail of broken emotions. Isn't that Kate Beckett? And further, redemption is not quick – so this isn't anything I wanted to wrap up all nice and neat and tidy inside one story that transpired over a month or two.

I think those of you who stay the course will be rewarded in a surprising manner with where this one goes. Those who opt out, let me say thank you for giving this story an initial glance – and I hope to see you in future stories I might write.

With that said, on to the story . . . picking up right where we left off last chapter.

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 _ **December 17, 2013, 9:21 a.m., In the Carpathian Mountains of Romania: Day 107 of Isolation**_

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A tired but suddenly rejuvenated Kate Beckett follows her captor and liberator as she walks toward the mountain's ledge, and stops. She snow is easily calf height, and it is coming down lightly. The Russian allows her newly-released captive to join her as she glances over the ledge, the cold air whipping their hair, stinging their skin – and biting deeply into their bodies. It is Beckett's first direct view of civilization – and another human being – in months.

"You'll need this," Elena tells her, handing her a coat, the cold air forming puffs of smoke as she speaks.

Wordlessly, Kate simply nods her head as she puts the heavy piece of clothing on, grateful as she only now begins to feel the cold of the Romanian winter. She glances down at the village, which like the mountain on which she stands, is blanketed in snow.

"It is so beautiful," the ex-detective remarks. It is the first hint of passion or emotion that the Russian has observed since she has opened the metal door, freeing her friend.

"Indeed," is all she says as she begins to walk toward her left, as the ledge convenes with the mountainside, forming a literal walkway around the mountain. There is roughly two feet of ledge, as Kate follows her, careful and quite unsure in her footing. It is treacherous going, with Kate glancing down off the cliffs more than occasionally, noting the depth of the fall that awaits anyone who slips or loses their balance. She notes that her companion doesn't seem fazed in the least, moving quickly. It is obvious she has done this many times before.

Elena leads her roughly one hundred and eighty degrees directly behind the cave's entrance on the other side of the pointed mountain. At this height, it takes about thirty minutes. Four months ago, traversing such a pathway would have been difficult – almost impossible for Beckett. Now? Difficult yes. Impossible? Hardly.

They come to an opening – still well over a mile above the village below and behind them on the other side of the mountain now. Kate smiles as she sees the chopper waiting there. She notes the tall metal door – a wall actually – built into the mountainside that she realizes most likely leads to the back of the refrigerator inside.,

"That's how my food was delivered," she comments, matter-of-factly.

"Yes," is Elena's terse response.

"You?" Kate asks, questioningly.

"Yes," is the one word response, again.

"Thank you," Kate replies, a small smile creeping across her features. Elena returns the smile with a question of her own.

"I suppose you're probably wondering why we didn't just take the chopper up here the first time," Elena remarks.

"Not really," Kate remarks, surprising her companion, as both women make their way to the waiting Agusta A109 aircraft. Sleek and fast, the helicopter is ideal for basic transport as well as high mountain rescues. Elena gets in on the pilot side while Kate slides comfortably into the seat adjacent to the pilot seat.

Within a minute, the chopper is lifting upward into the winds of the Carpathian Mountains. While not a virgin when it comes to helicopters, the scene – and situation – are somewhat intense for the newly-freed passenger.

"My God," Kate mutters as she glances out the window below.

"Yes, I agree," Elena murmurs appreciatively, wondering exactly what changes isolation has brought to her companion, but pleased with the initial set of observations. There was no panic, no anger when she opened the door to release Kate Beckett. Instead, was something of an acceptance, and a strong determination. She smiles at the recent memory.

Elena Markov banks the aircraft hard to the left, avoiding the town below. The maneuver catches her companion's attention.

"I take it we aren't going back down there," Kate points with her thumb as she eyes the pilot.

"No," Elena replies. "We are not. As I told you, we are headed to New York."

"In this rickety old thing?" Kate asks, smiling.

"Of course not," the Russian chuckles. There is an airfield about thirty miles from here with an aircraft that is . . . larger than our friend here."

"I certainly hope so," Kate remarks. "So what is so urgent in New York that required you to release me, and early at that?"

"It is best you see for yourself, Kate" Elena tells her. As she flies the craft, she retrieves a small mini-tablet from her inside chest pocket and hands it to the ex-detective from the NYPD.

"Let us see exactly how far you have come," Elena tells her, and a cold shiver that has nothing to do with the cold weather runs up Beckett's spine as she hits the power button, turning the device on.

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 _ **Three Days Ago - December 14, 2013, 12:37 p.m., at a diner in New York City**_

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The crashing noise from the kitchen just off to his left – from his vantage point – draws Richard Castle's attention away from the attractive redhead who sits across the table from him. Normally he is a man who prefers sitting against the window, where he can watch the people walking by. It's the observant writer's nature about him. In this particular establishment, however, Castle prefers to be closer to the kitchen, picking up the aromas that float from the back and enjoying the banter that can be heard from there.

"Another series of plates demolished," he muses aloud with a smile, his eyes twinkling.

"Poor Rico," his companion smiles with him. "I have to say, I am surprised that Marco has not given him the boot by now."

Castle simply nods his head as he returns his attention to the beautiful woman with him for lunch today. Eliza Rourke has become an on-again/off-again companion for the writer these past few months. True, they have become close. Not 'intimate close', but certainly on their way. She fascinates him. He is both intrigued by the younger woman, as well as wary of her.

He is intrigued because she is vibrant, brave and beautiful – and she becomes even more so with each passing day. Each conversation pulls him deeper into the web she unintentionally spins.

He is wary because she is . . . well there is no other way to say it. She is the daughter of a mobster. And not just any mobster. This is one that Castle knows, and knows well. And despite the current warm currents flowing between the author and mobster, Castle knows how quickly things can turn frosty with it comes to Finn Rourke. Rourke is the undisputed leader of the Westies, the Irish gang in the city, and he has a reputation – one well earned – for brutality. The only thing that trumps his brutal nature is an unwavering sense of loyalty. Of family.

Richard Castle has become entrenched in the loyalty part. Saving the old Irish man's daughter during the explosion before the summer more or less cemented that.

The family equation? Yeah, he is wary of that. In the end, that is not something one dips one's toe into. With Finn Rourke, you're either in or you're out. And once in – there is only one way out. For this reason, Castle has kept his toes firmly in his shoes, and his shoes to himself, thank you very much. It is a dance that he and this beautiful woman have been doing for a couple of months now, and thankfully, she knows it, her father knows it.

And Castle knows it.

For now, it seems to be enough for Eliza Rourke. But he wonders how long it will remain so.

For this reason, Castle has been doing something for the past ten or eleven weeks that has not come naturally to him. He's simply let this relationship come and go – not trying to pull her in, and yet not pushing her away. It is a refreshing pace after the long, arduous but exciting chase that was Kate Beckett . . . which ended so abruptly, so surprisingly . . . so badly.

It has been almost four months since she left – after giving him the impression that she'd return in four or five weeks, tops. It is just another disappointment from the ex-NYPD detective, one that he is committed not to allow to repeat.

Yet here, this afternoon – the ex-Detective, ex-Federal Agent, ex-love of his life is front and center on his mind – despite the beautiful alternative sitting across from him. And that's the problem. Right now, Eliza is an alternative. She deserves to be so much more than simply that. Perhaps it's his chivalry, or just Martha's manners instilled deep within him . . . but he refuses to place the west side bartender on such a selfish – and precarious – perch in his life.

His attention returns to the television set hanging on the wall, waiting to see if the news reporters say anything else about grisly murder about which they have just reported. He shakes his head, recognizing it for what he knows it to be: a challenge.

"Damn her and her righteous war," he mutters under his breath.

"What was that, Richard?" Eliza asks, as she wipes the remnants of buttered toast from her lips with the small white napkin.

"Nothing, Red," he smiles, using the nickname he has come up with for her. No, it is nothing original. It's cute, it's personal . . . but it's not intimate. He's not there yet. But it's getting harder to avoid. A reckoning of sorts is imminent, and it worries him.

"Nothing at all," he lies as he wonders what all of this will mean for him . . . for Alexis . . . for Martha . . . and for the woman at the table with him, and her father.

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 _ **Present Time: December 17, 2013, 10:03 a.m., Flying along the Carpathian Mountains**_

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Kate Beckett stares wordlessly out of the side of the window, glancing at the white-covered mountainside as she and Elena Markov fly in a westerly direction toward the airfield that she has promised awaits. The pilot – unseen by Kate – smiles under her breath at the reaction she has witnessed from her friend beside her.

Kate had pulled up the first document – downloaded from the New York Times three days ago. There are three documents that she has been instructed to peruse. The first story details a murder – on the surface, nothing unusual about that in New York City.

A body had been found, on December 14th. Another murder in the city. As she read the first lines, she wondered aloud why this would pertain to her. She's not a part of the 12th anymore, she's not a federal agent anymore. She's not . . . well, she's not really anything anymore, at the moment.

"Keep reading," was the terse response from her companion who focused her attention on the horizon ahead.

Kate has complied, and Elena has searched her friend – from the corner of her eye – searching for the tell-tale signs of the old Kate Beckett. She is relieved to see none.

Make no mistake - the words from the tablet reach out and assault the auburn-haired beauty. Her eyes have narrowed, and unconsciously she has started the calming breathing exercises that she began to practice during her months in isolation.

She reads about the body that was found underneath what is known as the 'Survivor Tree' – a Callery pear tree that was twice-transplanted after the horrific terror attack of September 11, 2001 on the World Trade Center. The tree had been discovered in early October of 2001 at Ground Zero, badly damaged. Roots snapped and burned. Branches broken. A piece of nature shredded. The tree was removed from the rubble and transported to the NYC Department of Parks and Recreation before eventually being returned to the Memorial location nine years later in 2010. Now, new limbs grow forth from the gnarled stumpy remains. Where the tree died and came back to life is easily visible on the natural structure. What has been a living testament to the resurrection of life, is now – with the dead body found beneath it – once again a place of grisly death.

In an expression of sadistic humor, a few old-school vinyl record albums lay scattered about the body. Old Partridge Family albums. But the next words from the article have gripped her once-damaged heart and jolted it once again.

" _Police are questioning the desecration of the woman's body. The name 'Johanna' was carved into the right side of the victim's lower back."_

For a brief instant, the hands holding onto the tablet begin to slightly tremble. It is just for a second or two before Kate Beckett recovers – it is almost imperceptible.

Almost.

Her pilot companion notices however. She also notices how quickly her friend recovers.

"Read the next one," Elena tells her, and Kate numbly closes the document, and then clicks on the second document.

The date on this document is December, 15th. A day later, a second body was discovered underneath the Rockefeller Christmas tree on the backside of the tree. The body was found by a visiting family from New Jersey, effectively ruining their holiday season. Kate notes that the press has now used that name for the killer – dubbed "the Holiday killer".

This second body was found with two bars of soap, a bar in each hand, tightly gripped in death. Atop the body was a colorfully wrapped gift box, wrapped with red ribbons and a red bow. The bomb squad was brought in as a precaution to open the box. Upon opening, a simple – and safe – VHS video tape was found inside. One of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies from over a decade ago. Upon turning the body over, sure enough, the name 'Johanna' was carved into the lower right back of this young woman, like the body found the previous day.

"A partridge in a pear tree, and two turtle doves," Kate quickly recognizes. She nods with bitter understanding, realizing that a new serial killer has been unleashed on her city.

Her city.

Without waiting for Elena to respond, she closes this document, and opens the third document. The date, of course, is December 16th. By now, she knows the theme that is being uncovered.

With this article, the killer has been renamed yet again. Now he – or she – is simply being referred to as 'Holiday'. With the third body found, the twelve days of Christmas theme is unmistakable, undeniable.

The third body was found in the kitchen of an upscale French restaurant in Manhattan. Found by the chef as he entered the kitchen in the early morning hours. This time it is a young black woman, barely twenty years old if that – with her mouth stuffed with the feathers of a small French hen. The rest of the bird was found in a pot of sitting water on the large stove. When the authorities flipped the body over, the same name – 'Johanna' – is carved into the lower back of the unfortunate victim.

By now, the police and press have figured out that the carvings into each body are not mere messages – no, they are challenges. Someone, somewhere is being called out. And Kate has no illusions as to who is being challenged in this brutal game of wits.

.

 _ **Two Days Ago - December 15, 2013, 12:14 p.m., at a Richard Castle's loft New York City**_

.

The ringing phone startles Richard Castle, drawing his attention from the words on his large Mac computer where he is working on his newest novel. It has taken some time, but he has found a new character to write about. It is a point of pride for him that this new character is not based upon some muse. No beautiful woman. No self-inspired private detective. No, this story is about a family man – happily married, two children. A slice of Americana.

Except for the fact that this lead character is an assassin for the CIA. He isn't sure from where this inspiration comes, but he is simply excited to be writing again. And writing consistently.

He reaches over to turn the cell phone toward him, and purses his lips when he sees the caller identification. He has been waiting – since the newscast yesterday afternoon and last night – for a call from one of them. One or the other.

"Hey Javi," he answers after the third ring. "I can't say I am surprised to hear from you."

"Hey Castle," his old friend replies. "It's been a while."

"Yes it has, my friend," Castle remarks, his mind immediately going back to times earlier this year . . . last year, and the year before . . . and the year before that.

"I suppose this is about the body yesterday," Castle continues.

"Actually," Detective Javier Esposito replies, "this is about the body today as well as the body yesterday."

"Another body?" Castle almost shouts, his mind now racing. Suddenly a knock at the door to the loft snaps the writer away from the phone conversation and he walks briskly to the door. Glancing through the peephole, he frowns and murmurs as he unlocks the door, opening it to the detective.

"Yep, found it this morning," his old friend tells him as he walks into the loft. Before he can continue, Castle is asking questions – rapid fire. The memories come flooding back to the detective as he smiles.

"What are you doing here? Where was the body found? Man or woman? Any similarities to the body yesterday?"

"Easy there, buddy," Esposito chuckles. "The body was found at the Rockefeller Christmas tree. It is another woman again, and yeah – carvings on the body."

"Johanna?" Castle asks.

"Yes, you know it is. You know that's why I'm calling. I know you made it clear you want nothing to do with the 12th anymore . . ."

Esposito leaves the accusing thought hanging in the air, and for a brief instant, the joviality and friendly nature of the call is threatened. Fortunately, Castle defuses the situation for both men before it gets uncomfortable.

"You know what I meant, Javier," Castle defends. "I had to –"

"We know, Castle," Kevin Ryan interrupts, as he too walks in. "We all know. We do. But back to this . . . someone is calling her out, Castle. Someone wants her. Bad. And we have no idea where she is."

"Neither do I," Castle quickly – almost too quickly – replies gruffly as he walks back to the door, glancing out into the hallway. "Anybody else out there with you guys waiting to come inside?"

"No, just us," Esposito replies, walking toward the kitchen area of the loft.

"Kevin," the author says softly by way of greeting.

"Hey Castle," his other friend from the 12th Precinct replies. "The press is calling him the holiday killer, because –"

"How was the body found, Javi?" Castle asks, this time his turn to interrupt. "Yesterday was easy – a partridge in – or in this case – under a pear tree. I suppose today was two turtle doves?"

"The worst movie you can think of, with two bars of soap," the Hispanic detective replies.

"The twelve days of Christmas," Castle mutters under his breath, but audible enough for Esposito to hear.

"Which means we potentially have ten more of these damn killings to go," declares Detective Kevin Ryan.

"So you have a holiday killer at large, playing a gruesome game following the verses of the worst Christmas song ever," Castle tells both men.

"And he's taunting us," Ryan tells both men.

"He, or she," Castle reminds both men, bringing a chuckle from both. Castle's mind was always open to possibilities.

"So, you didn't answer my first question," Castle suddenly reminds both men. "Why are you here? You could have called. What warranted an in person meeting?"

His heart sinks as both men immediately drop their eyes toward the ground. For two or three seconds, neither man can bring themselves to look at their old friend. It tells Castle everything he needs to know, and he feels the emotional buckshot deep in his stomach.

"You think . . . you're here because I am a suspect," the novelist monotones, his entire demeanor now changing toward his guests.

"More like a person of interest, Castle," Kevin quickly confides. "Me and Javi, we know this isn't you. We both told her –"

"Gates?" Castle questions, his eyes widening.

"She is just covering every base, Castle," Esposito breaks in. "You know how she is. It is obvious someone is searching for Beckett. Someone who knows her. Someone who knows her history. Someone who knows about her mother."

"And someone who has the imagination to even think about killings following a holiday theme," Ryan continues. "She knows that the first set of murders that brought you to the 12th were based on a few of your books. She finds the parallels . . ."

"Incriminating?" Castle asks aloud.

"I believe 'concerning' is the word she used," Esposito answers. "We just came because she asked – and now that we are here, we can tell her to go look under another tree."

"Well, trust me – it's not me, and while you are here wasting your time – and mine – there are other trees you should be shaking. Because tomorrow is day three, and there are twelve days in this stupid song."

"Uh, Castle," Ryan remarks, once again glancing downward. "That's not the only reason we are here."

"Oh great," Castle mutters, as Esposito raises his hand.

"No, no, Castle. We've done our part for her. Now we have a favor."

"She wants my help?" Castle asks, incredulous at the sudden turn of events. It is well known that Captain Victoria Gates wasted no time busting Castle out of the precinct once Kate Beckett was gone. She had no time for . . . hell, he doesn't even remember the term she used. That was long ago.

"Not _she_ ," Ryan tells him. " _We_. Me and Javi. _We_ need your help."


	3. Chapter 3

**Holiday – Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 **A/N:** First of all – Happy Mother's Day to each and every one of you reading who is a mom. Whether a biological mother, or a step-mother – you are life-givers, life-nurturers, and easily the biggest worriers on the planet – and with good reason. Without you, everything fades from view. Thank you. You are loved and appreciated beyond words – even if those who love you cannot find those words. Never forget that.

Today, the lyrics of one of my favorite songs comes to mind. Pretty appropriate for Mother's Day.

 _Without woman, Earth would fade and die_

 _Without woman, who am I?_

 _Who am I, on this island of faith?_

 _Who am I, on this island of life?_

 _Dreams are the understanding of life_

 _Dreams are the understanding of love_

Back to our story . . . now picking up the same day, but a few hours after we left off last chapter.

.

 _ **December 17, 2013, 3:34 p.m., Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean**_

.

A slight bump of turbulence awakens Kate Beckett out of her reprieve of slumber. After over one hundred days of low-light existence, the brightness of the sun and blue skies at thirty-five thousand feet above the earth is a bit too much for her eyes. She had pulled the window shade down, only to have her companion request that she pull it back up.

"Your eyes need to get adjusted, Kate," Elena had reminded her a couple of hours ago. "We have no idea what awaits you in New York."

The magnificent Dassault Falcon 900 blows through the skies, high above the clouds that tower over the Atlantic Ocean. The modified private jet normally holds a crew of two and fourteen passengers, but for this flight, there is the pilot, co-pilot and two women in the main cabin. After a quick refueling in Paris, they had climbed back into the sky and within minutes, Kate had fallen into a relatively deep sleep.

The turbulence that stirred up awake has passed just as quickly as it came, and the flight is once again smooth as Kate stares out of the window and at the deep blue ocean far below that she can barely make out.

"It is a view that never loses its magnificence," Elena remarks from the seat across the aisle from her. The layout of the aircraft includes two long sofa benches in the back of the plane - up against each side, windows at their back and separated by the aisle. In front of these sofa benches, in roughly the midsection of the plane, are two rows, with two seats in each row. All four are on the right side of the aisle. The four seats are turned so that they face each other. Across the aisle is a serving table.

In front of these seats – at the front of the plane - are two widely dispersed rows, each with one chair on either side of the aisle. A total of four chairs, the chairs in the first row are turned to face the chairs in the second. It is here in the second row that the two women sit – across the aisle from each other – each with a window for their viewing.

"Yes, it is" Kate agrees.

"Did you sleep well?" the Russian asks.

"Well . . . it's not the luxurious bed I slept in for the past few months, but it will do," Kate chuckles as she almost affectionately pats the large, leather arm of her seat, drawing another nod of admiration from her companion. No, Kate is not the first 'recruit' to spend initial time in solitary. Each new member of The Project has specific assignments – some of which require some . . . time alone in the cave. Kate's mindset, fresh from her incarceration, is nothing short of amazing. In retrospect, it should not have surprised Elena Markov. She has known that Kate's mind is strong. Bad decisions aside, there is a great strength deep within the woman.

"Good," Elena replies. "It is time to talk."

"About what?" Kate wonders aloud, not turning her full attention away from the window and to her companion.

"About Kate Beckett," Elena answers, cryptically.

"We are talking about me in the third person now?" Kate laughs.

"The Kate Beckett that left New York almost five months ago is no more," Elena reminds her, fastening her with a stone, glassy gaze that almost causes Kate to turn away. It is her first glimpse of 'the look' from the Russian and she suppresses a shudder.

"That Kate Beckett was a New York police detective," she Elena continues. "She was a federal agent. She is neither anymore." Elena continues.

"That occurred to me as well," Kate agrees. "So, who . . . or what . . . am I now?"

" _Who_ you are . . . well that remains to be seen," Elena tells her, an almost soft smile suddenly painting her face. Just as quickly, the painting fades.

" _What_ you are . . . that is what we must discuss," Elena continues, reaching inside a small shoulder bag and retrieving documents. She reaches across the aisle, handing the first document to her friend.

"Your lease papers," she tells her. "We terminated the lease on your old apartment. Do not worry, we paid off the lease balance. This is your new apartment. It is just down the block from your old place. But we made a few . . . modifications."

"I know this building," Kate whistles. "This is a step up, to say the least."

"It is not ostentatious by any means," Elena interrupts. "Nothing that will draw undue attention to you. But the extra space allows for a few items that, let's just say, should not be left in the open."

"Such as?"

"Weaponry. Communications technologies. And a few toys that your ex-lover would appreciate," Elena replies, intentionally throwing in the intimate reference of Richard Castle. It is time to see where her friend's head – and heart – have settled in the past few months. In the cave she has been bombarded with images of her mother's death and her lover's attempts to move on. Elena is more than curious to see what changes three months of mental and visual warfare have wrought.

"How . . . how is he?" Kate asks, her voice strong and steady, belying the battle that suddenly rages inside her. For months she has seen pictures and videos of Richard Castle – often in the company of the same redhead. She is entirely conflicted right now at this moment, simply at the mention of his name. In fact, his name wasn't even mentioned.

 _Ex-lover._

That's all Elena had to say.

"He is well," Elena responds. "He keeps himself busy. You have been gone a long time."

"Thanks to you – "Kate argues, muttering under her breath.

"Be that as it may, he has no idea where you are," Elena replies casually, "or if you will even return."

Kate is silent for a moment, pondering how to put her question into words. While in the cave, it became easy to isolate her thoughts, to compartmentalize the novelist into a small corner. Not knowing how long she would be in the cave, she simply focused on the here and now. There was nothing she could do about Castle, about her friends . . . about her father.

"My dad?" she asks quickly, now thinking about her father.

"He is well," is all the Russian says as she takes a sip of bottled water, giving Kate a moment to return to her original line of thinking. It takes another few seconds before Kate finally speaks.

"Why . . . it's obvious that you have resources there . . . in the city. They've been taking pictures. They know where he is. Why hasn't anyone approached him . . . Why didn't anyone him where I was, and why I had not returned. I had promised him that -"

"What you do, or do not do, with the novelist is _your_ decision, not ours, not mine," Elena replies quickly. "And as I understand it, this is not the first time that you have left him, no?"

Her simple question silences Kate. Can she blame him if he has moved on? And how does she really feel? Why has it been so easy to leave him? Not once . . . but twice . . . in a span of less than six months.

"You will do what you will with Richard Castle," Elena continues. "That, however, is not why we are here, headed back to your city."

Elena pull out another document, this time with a photograph. She hands it to her friend.

"This photo, this is where you work now," Elena tells her. "This is what you do."

"A book store?" Kate gasps, eye brows raised. She glances across the aisle at her companion, who simply smiles.

"You love reading, and you appear to have loved one who writes," Elena smiles. "It is the most natural cover to provide for you, since you no longer are a detective, or a federal agent. And the likelihood that you could become either again is remote, at best."

"Dunn," Kate exhales. A single word, a single name.

"Indeed," is the quick, one-word response she gets from Markov. "Your antics in Washington D.C. certainly nailed that particular coffin shut."

"Indeed," Kate replies, mimicking her host of sorts. Elena fixes her with a long stare.

"I can only hope that a few months of isolation have given you enough time to think, to consider how one man provoked you to such heights."

"Well, you made certain he won't have that effect on me again," Kate remarks, remembering the brutal execution of Scott Dunn at the hands of Markov back in Central Park. It seems like years ago now.

"A book store," Kate muses aloud, now turning her face back to the window once again. "I've often thought about working at a book store –"

"You do not _work_ at the book store, Kate," Elena corrects. "You _own_ the store. We have purchased the establishment. It is small – antique books, collectibles and such. Still, you will have a couple of people working for you. You must be able to come and go at any time, with little notice. Money will be placed in your bank account each month – on the first of each month."

"You're right," Kate remarks, still staring out of the window. "It is a good cover. One that those who know me . . . Dad, Castle . . . it won't seem like much of a stretch for them."

"It also gives you reason to stay in the know," Elena continues. "We have already equipped the store with a secure network, with access to our databases."

"Do I want to know where the money for this comes from?" Kate asks, glancing at her friend.

"The three letter agencies . . . MI-6, the CIA, the FBI. Even the very old remnants of our friends from the KGB . . . all contribute," Elena laughs.

"Why do I get the impression that they are unaware of their charitable funding," Kate smiles.

"No one misses what we take," Elena replies, matter-of-factly. "And our . . . contributions to their efforts do not go unnoticed."

"They know you . . . we exist?"

"They know of stories," Elena answers. "Rumors of rumors, that sort of thing. The kind of thing your novelist would write."

"That is the second time you have mentioned Castle," Kate remarks. There is just a hint of agitation in her voice.

"Why? Is this some sort of test? To see how I will react?"

This time it is Elena's turn to look away. She stares straight ahead – as if she can see through the cockpit door.

"I am interested to know who you are now, former-detective Kate Beckett," Elena smiles – still staring straight ahead.

"Can you be trusted on a mission? You will not be like other operatives. Some are doctors – their roles are obvious. Others are police officers, federal agents, and espionage operatives . . . each recruited and placed back within their normal lives. Because they continue to work as they have always worked, they are inconspicuous. From their normal, everyday lives, they provide us with critical information, critical insight."

"While I am a simple book store owner –"

"Who can come and go as we need," Elena continues. "They must play within the rules of their daily lives. They must ask for – and plan – time off. They put in for vacation. Sick leave. You, on the other hand –"

"So what I am?" Kate asks. "A spy, an assassin, a . . . what am I?"

"You are whatever we need you to be, Kate," Elena replies, not fixing her eyes back on her friend. "As am I. And right now, we need to know why someone is killing people to find you."

"Bracken?" Kate wonders aloud.

"I considered that, but no – he is not behind this," Markov answers.

"How can you be certain?" Kate wonders aloud. "He wanted to get me close to –"

"Because I asked him, and he will not lie to me," Elena interrupts.

"Then who?"

"That is what you will find out, Kate," Elena replies. "Because there are two possible scenarios at work here. One, someone from your past is calling you out. That means this is personal. Vengeance is at work. You understand all about vengeance, do you not, Kate?"

The pointed question hits its mark, as Kate turns away from her companion

"IF this is vengeance, then the perpetrator will make himself – or herself – known to you. That is part of the vengeance equation."

Suddenly, the tall Russian stands and moves toward Kate, and quickly takes the seat in the row in front of her. As the seats face one another, it gives the two women a better vantage point from which to converse.

"The other scenario, however, is much more troublesome," Elena continues. "In this scenario, someone is using you to get to us. While we have done much to keep The Project hidden in secrecy, there are . . . as I said . . . rumors of rumors. And when an ex-police detective turned federal agent goes missing after an exhaustive cat and mouse game with a known serial killer . . . well, someone may be considering that perhaps these are not simple rumors after all."

"So, in one scenario, I am the object of a serial killer, and in the other, I am . . . bait to lure you, to lure The Project out into the open."

"That, as you Americans like to say, is the gist of it," Elena tells her.

"So three people have been killed, all to either lure me out, or lure our organization out," Kate ponders, half speaking under her breath.

"And consider this, Kate," Elena tells her – fixing her gaze solidly and uncomfortably on her friend once again. "Whether this is about you, or about The Project – this person has chosen you to be the point of contact. And he – or she – is doing whatever is necessary to pull you out."

"I can see that."

"So, you can also see that – if this person becomes impatient, and wants to accelerate things – then he, or she, will decide to make things much more personal."

Kate stares at the woman for a moment before recognition clicks.

"Castle," Kate simply whispers. Images of her ex-lover now dominate her thinking before another thought hits her.

Dad. Martha. Alexis. Lanie.

All of the names – and faces – flow quickly before her eyes, eyes which are now glassy, letting the Russian know that Kate finally understands the stakes involved, and just how personal this can quickly become. Once again, as she has for the past couple of hours, she curses the simple and suddenly not-so-innocent Christmas tune.

"So you see, my lovely friend, I need to know whether or not you have moved beyond your quest for personal vengeance. I need to know what you will do when you are faced with the choice between our cause and some friendship you have. Because that choice will come."

Kate eyes her friend closely, trying desperately to see beyond the words, beyond what she is certain is another test.

"That's a difficult choice, Elena," she finally replies.

"They always are, Kate. They always are."

Nodding her head, Kate's thoughts return to the cave, her isolation, and a particular wee-hours of the morning event that was occurring far too often.

.

 _ **A little more than one month ago - November 12, 2013, 4:22 a.m., in the Carpathian Mountains**_

.

She is not sure whether it is the climax of her nightmare, or the sounds of her own screams that awaken her. Does it matter? She is now awake, beads of sweat on her brow, her hair matted and wet. She glances up and the television monitors. Sure enough, the same images that sent her to sleep are waiting for her as she awakens.

Her mother.

The face of death that she has never truly forgotten, but never had to face like this.

The blood pooling beneath her.

"God!" she exclaims, rising from the bed and swinging her feet to the touch the ground. Her head falls naturally into her hands, elbows on her knees as she takes deep breaths, her voice hitching as she talks to herself . . . trying to calm herself. The breathing exercises help, as she can sense her heartbeat is finally slowing down.

The words – left on a napkin on the small kitchen counter – with a simple phrase, handwritten, ring in her ears. She has spent the last two months staring at these words.

 _Faith, Hope, and Love. There is no room for vengeance._

She has assumed that this is a personal message from Elena. The second sentence is easy. Elena had – for a month or so during Kate's initial training – been very vocal about Kate's personal quest, and how much that quest has cost both herself as well as other families. But the first sentence – it has puzzled her.

Clearly a quote from the Bible, she recalls the famous 'love chapter'. That makes sense. The three great traits, of which love is the most important. But how in the world does the second sentence fit into that. The two don't go together. For the past two months Kate has struggled with this. Now, sweating and sleepy, eyes clinched closed and head in her hands - what was once dark and shadows has suddenly cleared somewhat. As usual, the ex-detective has made a simple phrase far too complicated. Sometimes, you just have to take things at face value.

Times such as now.

"It's not a riddle," Kate Beckett muses aloud. "Don't treat it as one."

She glances up at the monitors again, and – sure enough – the images of her long dead mother are gone, now replaced by images of one Richard Castle. The phrase on the napkin drifts back into her mind as she watches the author on screen take the hand of a beautiful redhead – for the thousandth time in the past couple of months. The words assault her.

Faith.

Hope.

Love.

Vengeance.

But what is it she is supposed to have faith about? Castle, and their failed relationship? Fat chance, as it seems he is moving on. William Bracken, and his eventual downfall?

And what is she supposed to hope for?

And who to love?

Well, that's the easy one.

"Faith, hope and love," she repeats out loud, as her eureka moment still avoids her. Slamming her fists into the mattress, she stands quickly, walking to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of water. She frowns as she opens the fridge door, to be met by a fully-stocked ice box of bottles and fresh meat. Once again, whoever is supplying her with essentials has done so under her nose, without her knowledge. The fridge was half empty when she went to bed last night.

"Dammit," she mutters. She's tired. Tired of being incarcerated. Tired of being taken care of. Tired of the endless, almost brainwashing images on the monitors. And tired of these damn nightmares – definitely a product of the images.

.

 _ **Back to the present time, on December 17, 2013, now 4:25 p.m., Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean**_

.

"Back in the cave," Kate begins, changing the topic of conversation, "there was a piece of paper . . . no, actually it was a napkin. There was a phrase written on this napkin."

She searches the Russian's eyes for any glimmer of understanding. She frowns as she finds none. She was certain it was from her friend here. Now, she is not so sure.

"What did it say?" Elena asks her.

"Two sentences," Kate replies. "'Faith, Hope and Love' was the first sentence. And the second sentence said 'there is no room for vengeance'."

"Smart words to consider," is all her companion gives her.

"But why did you write it?" Kate asks, her eyes pleading for understanding now.

"Who says that I did?" Elena challenges. Kate's explosion startles her.

"Dammit, Elena, stop with the games!" Kate yells far too loudly, slamming her hands on the armrest. Yeah, she's had enough of the cloak and dagger shadow games being played with her mind.

"I've just spent three months in jail, I've lost my friends, I've lost my job, I've lost the man that I loved . . . and now I'm being thrown back into a cat and mouse game of life and death. Enough with the riddles! I think I deserve to –"

"You love someone," Elena interrupts – her voice but a whisper. The whining of the engines almost drowns her voice out, and Kate has to learn in toward her companion to make out the words.

"You hope that they return your love . . . which requires faith to see it through."

Kate considers the words spoken, and is ready to speak when Elena puts up a hand to stop her.

"Where does vengeance fit in this equation?" Elena asks.

"It doesn't," Kate replies quickly.

"Then why did you always introduce it into a place where it does not belong?"

Kate relaxes, leaning backwards into her seat again, exhaling a large, long breath. She glances down at her hands, her fingers fidgeting.

"That's not –"

"Do not say the word 'fair' Kate," Elena warns. "No one said that life was fair. No one said that it is uncomplicated."

"But –"

"You introduce vengeance into the equation – and the equation breaks down. It is simple math. By introducing a variable into an equation that does not belong there, suddenly the equation breaks down – it cannot be solved."

"I just wanted justice," Kate offers after a few seconds of silence. Her voice is soft and cracking, her eyes glistening. "I just wanted justice," she repeats.

"No, my friend," Elena counters. "You wanted vengeance. Justice was served to Roy Montgomery, to Dick Coonan, to Hal Lockwood, to countless others. The universe has given you plenty of signs that eventually – the person behind it all would be caught. But that has never been enough for you. And so, by introducing vengeance into the equation, you have lost faith. Suddenly the man you thought loved you – well perhaps he doesn't anymore. He doesn't say the things he used to say, or do the things he used to do. You lose faith, and then you lose hope."

She eyes her friend for a few seconds, and then reaches across the open space to take Kate's hands within her own.

"You lose hope, and before you know it, you end up taking a job in a different city, because love has vanished – or so you think."

The tears finally spill down the cheeks of the once-youngest ever female detective in the NYPD, as her fingers tighten around those of her companion.

"You are of no use to anyone – including yourself – until you solve the equation, until you balance both sides. There has been more than enough collateral damage, don't you think?"

Before she can answer, Elena releases her hands, and stands. Brushing herself off, she returns to her seat across the aisle from Kate Beckett.

"There are murders being committed in your mother's name," Elena tells her. "Murders designed to draw you out. If nothing else, your time in the cave should have taught you to compartmentalize things – what you can control, you control. What you cannot, you place in a box until it _can_ be controlled."

She waits until her friend nods her head before continuing.

"Richard Castle, William Bracken – both belong in a box for now," Elena tells her. "You have a mission. _We_ have a mission. They stay compartmentalized for now."

She takes another long pull from her bottled water, and continues once again.

"Your father, your friends in the NYPD, they all are placed in a box. The only name I care about – the only name _you_ should care about – is the name of the person who is behind these murders. The person who knows about your mother – and would try to draw you out."

"Well, I _have_ given that some thought, to be honest," Kate replies, her composure settling in quickly as she does what Elena has correctly assumed she has learned from her short incarceration – she compartmentalizes everything else.

For now.

"Scott Dunn is dead, so it isn't him," Kate begins. "The next name I would think of would be Jerry Tyson. Although he typically likes to kill in –"

"It is certainly not Mr. Tyson," Elena interrupts.

"How can you be so sure?" Kate wonders aloud. "You asked me who would know me this well, who would –"

"Mr. Tyson is dead," Elena says simply.

"He is? When? How do you know this?" Kate questions, her heartbeat beginning to race.

"Because I killed him," Elena remarks, so casually that it once again disarms Kate Beckett. She remembers how easily – and brutally - the woman across the aisle dispatched Scott Dunn in Central Park.

"Then I have no idea," a suddenly somewhat demoralized Kate Beckett admits.

.

 _ **Roughly the same time, on December 17, 2013, now 3:05 p.m., in New York City**_

.

Richard Castle hops into the cab, sliding his large frame effortlessly into the back seat as he closes the door behind him.

"Rosie O'Grady's on 7th and 52nd," he tells the cabbie as he settles in for the short ride to meet with Serena Kaye, who is back in the city after yet another jaunt to Europe. Truth be told, he has missed the private investigator – and is anxious to see her. His thoughts are interrupted by a news alert on his mobile phone.

' _Holiday Strikes Again,'_ the headline screams, and with shaking hands, Castle clicks open the offensive article teased. He begins to read, softly to himself, his lips moving but no sounds escaping.

 _This afternoon, the body of a local businessman was found in an abandoned car in front of the old AT &T Long Lines Building on 33 Thomas Street in New York. Authorities say that the security desk personnel from the large skyscraper, now rumored to be partially used by the NSA, called 911 after noticing the car parked in the no-parking zone in front of the building. Upon examination, it was noticed that there were blood stains on the trunk of the car – and when the trunk was opened, the body of the businessman was found. The identity of the man has not yet been released, as authorities are notifying the next of kin of the deceased. Police confirm that the body was found with four small dead birds stuffed in his mouth, and the tell-tale mutilation of his lower back indicates that the Holiday killer has struck again._

"A dead body, in front of the old telephone company building. Four dead birds. Four calling birds," he mutters with frustration.

With fumbling fingers, Castle quickly scrolls through names on his phone until he finds hers. Clicking on the name, he gets to three rings before she answers.

"Hello Richard," the sultry voice greets him. Yeah, he really doesn't want to break this appointment, but he and his two friends agreed that at the first hint of another body drop, they would connect immediately.

"Hi Serena," he begins. "I hate to do this at this late notice . . ."

.

 **A/N:** A lot going on in this chapter, I know. Just a few hints to remember: Bracken asked Elena to eliminate both Scott Dunn and Jerry Tyson near the end of Hunt the Hunter. So the infamous Triple-X killer met his demise off pages, so to speak. So the two most obvious players who would engage in such a sick game to draw out Kate Beckett are off the table. Which opens up new, and less obvious possibilities.

I'm not sure if alerts are working on the site again, but thanks to all who are still with us early on this story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Holiday – Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay, my friends. Nothing urgent, just life happening this summer. I hope everyone is doing well. Without further ado, we pick up the story some three hours later, adjusting for time zone changes, as Elena Markov and Kate Beckett arrive in New York.

.

 _ **December 17, 2013, 6:08 p.m., At John F Kennedy Airport in New York**_

.

A cold splash of slightly damp New York wind softly slaps her face as she walks down the short ladder to the tarmac at JFK airport. She wraps her coat more snugly around her. Cold, but not Romanian mountain cold. She hands her passport to the customs agent waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The action is duplicated by Elena Markov, who is beside her. With both passports in hand, the large and very officious agent walks ahead of the two women.

"This way please," he offers, then glances backward for a moment.

"No luggage?" he questions, eyebrows raised. He knows this is a flight chartered from Romania. He is surprised that both women have only normal shoulder purses with them. Not even a carry-on bag.

"We are returning from a short business trip," Elena replies.

"It was a very quick turnaround," Kate adds, glancing out into the distance, reveling in the knowledge that she is back in New York. Back home.

Agent Jenkins – if his badge is to be believed – simply mutters an unintelligible response under his breath, slightly unconvinced. But it isn't his problem. No bags just makes his job easier, so he isn't going to sit here and complain.

A minute later, both women are standing at an official looking table where Jenkins now sits, facing both his passengers and his large computer screen. After a moment, he hands one passport back to Markov.

"Ms. Gregory," he says, handing her the passport, unaware of the alias that Markov has chosen.

"Thank you," Elena replies softly, quickly placing the item in her shoulder purse.

"Are you up for a bite to eat?" Kate asks her companion as she waits for her turn to be processed. "That was a nice fruit spread, but right now my stomach is asking for something with a little more meat," she continues.

Elena, however, doesn't answer immediately. She is watching Jenkins. She watches his eyes move laterally, realizing he is reading a note. A long note. One that was not included when he processed her so quickly.

"This is your city," Elena whispers in return. "Pick a place."

Seconds later, without an upward glance, Agent Jenkins stamps and then closes Kate Beckett's passport, and stands quickly.

"Thank you. All is in order, Ms. Beckett," he tells her as he hands her the document. "The doors are right over there. Welcome to the United States of America."

The two women smile, nod their heads, and move toward the door.

"Do not look back," Elena tells Kate as she locks arms with her, casually, as two old friends would do so easily. The move draws no attention to either woman from anyone – Jenkins in particular.

"What do you mean?" Kate asks, while obeying her friend.

"You've been flagged," Elena tells her, "But for some reason, allowed to continue."

"You're sure," Kate asks, but it isn't really a question. She knows by now that Elena is rarely incorrect about such things.

"I'm sure," her companion tells her.

Behind the women, still standing at the desk, Agent Jenkins watches the two women leave. He watches them walk out the door, and gives himself a count of ten before sitting once again and picking up the phone, placing a call to the NYPD.

"Sgt. Evanston," the voice replies on the second ring.

"Sgt. Evanston, this is Agent Brian Jenkins, with U.S. customs at John F Kennedy International Airport. I just had a woman present herself from a charter flight from Europe. Romania to be specific. Our system flagged her, indicating that there is an All-Points Bulletin in effect for her."

A quick chill runs up the spine of the sergeant, who quickly begins scribbling down notes.

"Her name?"

"Katherine Beckett," the agent replies, glancing back at the retreating figures through the glass door, now a good fifty yards away and moving briskly towards the exits.

"There was no indication to hold, just to alert," Jenkins continues.

"No, no that is correct," Evanston replies. We will take it from here. Thanks Jenkins."

Evanston quickly glances down at his watch, noting the time. A Tuesday night just after six o'clock. _"Yeah, she will still be here,"_ he thinks to himself, as he punches another extension, cradling the receiver to his ear. Three rings later, he is rewarded for his efforts.

"This is Gates," comes the greeting.

"Captain Gates . . . sir," Evanston begins. "You were right, sir. Customs just flagged Kate Beckett at JFK."

"When?" Gates questions, her heart rate speeding up in spite of herself. She offers herself a glance from her chair to the bullpen, but the view is obstructed by a janitor, pushing a pail of dirty water.

"I just got off the phone with them," Evanston replies. "Just this minute. She was on an inbound flight from Romania."

"Thank you, Sergeant Evanston."

The line goes dead. Evanston is not surprised. His task done, he turns to his computer, to continue what he was doing originally before the call from Jenkins came in.

Upstairs, Captain Victoria Gates smiles to herself. When her two detectives – the ex-partners of Beckett – explained to her the significance of the name carved into the back of the first two murder victims, it was apparent at that time that her former lead detective was being challenged. _Why_ was still the question of the hour. Along with _who._

Regardless, at that time it seemed prudent to put an APB out for the former detective. She was no longer with the NYPD, and no longer with the Feds. That much was known. Her whereabouts, however, were not known. It was as if she had literally fallen off the face of the earth. Impossible of course, but no one – not even any of the infamous three-letter plagues on the earth had located her. No one had heard even a peep from the ex-detective.

But still no Kate Beckett. The person, the woman in question, remained absent.

Still, she knew that wherever Kate Beckett was, there was no way she would ignore this. The name of her mother carved into the backs – near the kidney area – of the murder victims? No, this hit too close – it was too personal a challenge for her to ignore.

The only thing that any of them – Gates, Esposito, Ryan – knew for certain was that Kate had broken her lease, bought a new place in the city, and bought a book store. And this only because Esposito insisted on – despite orders from his captain otherwise – to search for his old friend after she had not returned a month later, as Castle had indicated was her plan. After a couple of months of fruitless efforts, Javier found records of her two purchases last month. But that was it. No credit card purchases. And certainly no Kate Beckett taking possession of her new home.

But the purchase of the home told them that she was alive.

Of course, while pleased that his friend was still alive – the first thing that occurred to both he and Richard Castle, when the detective shared the news with the author, was a simple question.

Where in the world would Kate Beckett get the money to both upgrade her living arrangements as well as purchase a book store?

The second question, of course, was more obvious.

Why a book store?

That question is front and center in Captain Gate's mind as she stands up from her desk and walks to the glass window from her office to the bullpen. She gazes about, and nods her head, seeing that neither Javier Esposito nor Kevin Ryan are there. She glances at her watch, knowing both men left half an hour ago or so.

" _Well, they will want to know about this,"_ she muses to herself as she walks back to her desk, picks up her phone, and places the first of two phone calls.

.

 _ **Just over an hour later, December 17, 2013, now 7:35 p.m., At a small bookstore in New York City**_

.

Kate Beckett takes one last look around the small store. As she has for the past twenty minutes, she lets her fingers graze the book spines with each step she takes, fingers dancing along the titles. She cannot stifle the smile that broadens on her face. As they have twice before now, her feet – almost with a mind of their own – have brought her back to the mystery section. She stops again – for a third time in the past twenty minutes, her fingers tapping on the book spine in front of her – at eye level.

 _Flowers for Your Grave._

She smiles. There is no sadness in her smile. No melancholy afterthoughts. Just a flood of warm memories that quickly assault her.

"This is where it all started, Rick," she whispers aloud, now wondering – not for the first time tonight – where the novelist is at this moment. She has resisted calling him. What would she say? She's been gone much longer than planned, much longer than expected.

Longer than _promised_.

She knows what it looks like. That she didn't come back for him. That she came back for a case. Another damnable case.

And the worst part is – she knows that is exactly what has happened. She has come back for a case. Not him. The conflict raging within her is huge. She closes her eyes for a moment, steeling herself. She retracts her fingers from the book.

"Soon," she promises herself, as she hears knocking at the front window. It startles her, because the store is closed. There is a huge sign on the door indicating as such. So who would be knocking?

As she walks toward the window, a broad smile widens across her face. She picks up her pace, and is at the front door a few seconds later. She unlocks the door, opening it just as a strong pair of arms rush in and lift her upward.

"Javi," she exclaims happily, wrapping her arms around her old friend and partner on the force.

"Kate Beckett as I live and breathe," he replies enthusiastically. Behind him, Captain Victoria Gates raises an eyebrow at the very unusual show of affection between her current detective and her ex-detective. Before she can consider things further, Detective Kevin Ryan joins in the group hug, leaving the captain to feel very much like a third wheel.

After a few seconds, Gates steps forward, into the small store with a nod of her head.

"Kate," she says by way of greeting.

"Captain," Kate replies, her arms still locked with each of her ex-partners.

"It is good to see you," Gates continues.

"It is good to be back," Kate offers, glancing quickly at the two smiling bookends on either side of her.

"Where have you been?" Gates asks.

"Europe," comes the one-word reply. "But you know that already," Kate smiles. "Smart to put an APB out for me."

"Vacation?" Gates asks, ignoring the parry by her ex-detective.

"I . . . would not call it that, no," Kate replies, continuing to smile.

"So why are you here now, Kate?" Gates continues.

"I take it this isn't a social call anymore?" Kate deadpans, now releasing the arms of her friends.

"What do you think?" Gates presses.

Kate smiles, refusing to take the bait. A month of basic training and three months of isolation weren't all for naught. Five months ago, she would have reacted differently . . . more aggressively. Today is different.

She is different.

"I went away for a while," Kate continues to smile. "Now I'm back."

"You don't need to be here," Gates counters. "Not now."

"Someone else says differently," Kate replies evenly. "And they have a brutally imaginative way of looking for me."

"You're not a cop anymore, Kate," Gates replies, matching the ex-detective's steely gaze.

"And you're trespassing without a warrant," Kate replies, her smile suddenly darker. All three of her visitors notice the change. Kevin Ryan suppresses a shudder. His Hispanic partner is not as subtle.

"Kate?" Esposito speaks, but is cut off by his boss' remarks.

"So that's how it's going to be?" Gates asks her.

"That's how it's going to be," Beckett replies, taking a step backward, and turning her back on her guests to move toward the light switch on the wall.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Kate," Gates admits, a bit of sadness creeping into her voice.

"I'm sorry to hear that there are killings going on and you're here questioning me," Kate replies with just a hint of menace in her voice that stops Gates cold.

"I'm sorry that – if the pattern holds – our killer is most likely planning his or her next murder, and you're here with me," she continues, as she turns out the lights, throwing all of them into relative darkness, save the emergency lights along the floor, and the soft light from outside.

"Well, you have to admit that it is quite a coincidence that you go missing for months, and show up now."

"It's no coincidence at all, Captain," Kate remarks as she leads everyone back to the front door. "I took a little vacation. Someone wanted me back. Now I'm back."

"Working at a book store?" Gates wonders aloud, glancing at the shelves behind them. "It is a cover? I mean, your skills, your expertise is –"

"The only covers here are wrapped around old books, Captain," Kate interrupts.

"Nice pun," Esposito offers. "Castle would like that."

"Have you seen Castle?" Ryan interjects, as both men move in unison toward the front door. Clearly the impromptu meeting is over. They came to see if Kate Beckett was all right. They are pleased to find her fine, and . . . changed.

"No," she replies, with a hint of sadness that is quickly replaced. "Not yet. Can you tell Castle I said hello?"

"Tell him yourself," Ryan replies, earning a hard slap on the back of his head from his partner.

"Really, Milk?" Esposito offers angrily. "Really?"

"Shut up, Javi," Kevin Ryan counters as the three visitors start walking out through the open door into the city night. A cold brush of wind cools the front of the store as Kate steps forward to say goodbye. She notices the wink that both Ryan and Esposito give her as they leave. Inwardly Kate suppresses the warmest smile she has felt in months.

"I will be in touch, Kate," Gates offers almost as a warning. "Remember . . . you're not a cop anymore."

"Someone wants me here, Captain," Kate replies. "Now I'm here. Cop or not."

She shuts the door, locking it before a stunned Captain Gates can reply.

.

 _ **An hour later, still December 17, 2013, at 8:45 p.m., in New York City**_

.

The ringing phone startles Richard Castle out of a sleep he didn't expect. He glances around his loft – his empty loft, regaining his bearings as he reaches for his cell phone. He notices the caller identification and smiles.

"Hey Javier," he greets his friend.

"Castle," Esposito begins with no preamble. "She's here."

The pause on the other end tells the detective that his friend is processing the information. He recovers quickly.

"Okay, thank you, Javi."

"Castle," the detective continues. "She's different, Castle."

"Different how," Castle asks, now wide awake and fully engaged.

"You will have to see for yourself," Esposito replies.

"Well, I'm not running around the city looking for her," Castle replies to his friend. "She knows where I live if she wants to see me. Evidently she found you."

"Other way around, my friend," Esposito corrects him. "We went to visit her. An APB picked her up at JFK. We – me, Kevin and the Captain – we took a chance she'd go to the book store."

"She was there?" Castle asks, intrigued despite himself. "She really owns a book store?"

"Apparently so," Esposito replies. "That's where we found her."

"So she knows about the killings?"

"Yeah, that's why she's back," Esposito remarks. "But I . . . I don't know man. Like I said, she's different. I got the impression . . . I don't know. But I wanted to call you, because she asked about you. I mean genuinely asked. And asked me to say hi."

"What did you say?" Castle asks, leaning forward.

"Nothing," comes the reply. "Before I could answer, Kevin basically told her to look you up herself."

This brings a chuckle from the writer, a sound that Javier Esposito has missed.

"I'm sure that went over well," Richard Castle deadpans, running a hand through his hair. It drops to the stubble – a slight growth of beard to match the mustache he has grown over the past couple of weeks.

"Actually, yeah it did," Esposito remarks, continuing to laugh. "Like I said . . . she's different, man. Stood up to Gates like she was nothing more than a kindergarten teacher."

"You're kidding," the novelist remarks, his eyebrows raising involuntarily.

"You'll see," Esposito continues.

"Yeah, maybe so, maybe not," Castle replies. "Like I said –"

His next words are stuck in his throat as he hears the incoming message notification, and pulls the phone away from his ear for a moment. He eyes gaze across the incoming message on his cell phone.

From her.

He puts the call on speaker phone, so he can talk and read at the same time. He swipes up, and begins to read the short text.

" _I'm back in town. It's a long story. One you'd appreciate. Breakfast?"_

"Castle? Castle you there?" he hears his friend's voice begin to rise.

"Yeah, yeah Javi – I'm here. Just . . . I was just . . . she just texted me."

"Beckett?"

"Yeah."

"What'd she say?" Esposito asks, his voice clearly curious.

"She said . . . she wants to do breakfast."

"Well? Are you?" Esposito queries. For a few seconds, he hears the stereo music from Castle's loft. Still the slow, smooth jazz he's grown fond of. Seconds later, however, the music stops.

"Castle?"

" _Damn. He hung up,"_ the detective thinks to himself, now pondering this latest development.

.

 _ **Later that evening, December 17, 2013, now 10:02 p.m., Somewhere in New York City**_

.

The evening news is on the television in the bedroom. It has just started, and as it has for the past few days, it begins with the latest murder by the killer dubbed by the media as 'Holiday'. A drawing of four cartoonish birds, with the verse from the fourth day appears on the screen next to the blonde woman reading the news.

Having just stepped out of the shower, dried off and dressed, a long slender hand tosses a now-damp towel aside, a reaches for the remote control, turning the television volume up.

That done, the hand reaches into the small, black cloth bag sitting on the bed, and pulls out five separate gold rings – each 24 carat gold. A long, slender gold chain follows. Each ring is carefully placed on the chain, until all five rings hang on the chain. Closing the loop, the chain is placed back into the black cloth.

Humming now, and glancing at the clock on the wall, a hardened voice speaks out loud to no one in particular.

"It's time," the voice chuckles as a hand reaches for the remote once again, this time to turn the television off.

"On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me," the voice now sings instead of hums as the black cloth bag drops into a larger purse. Walking to the kitchen, a long knife is retrieved from one of the drawers, and placed into the purse as well. Slinging the purse across her shoulder, she calmly walks out of the apartment door, shutting the door behind her as she continues to sing.

.

 **A/N:** I hope everyone is enjoying the summer. We are enjoying a little time out of town with the two grandsons – I need more energy!

Obviously this was just a set-up chapter. Another of these coming and then we get serious. More soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Holiday – Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 **A/N:** It's been longer than planned. I apologize. I hope everyone in America is having a wonderful 4th of July. Those of you not in America, I hope your day/evening is wonderful also. Without further ado, back to our story. Kate has just texted Richard Castle, asking to meet for breakfast.

.

 _ **About an hour ago, December 17, 2013, now 8:55 p.m., At Kate Beckett's New Apartment in NYC**_

.

She stares at her phone, as if it is the only object in the world. And truth be told, right now for the ex-NYPD detective, nothing else matters.

Three months of isolation in a cave, alone with nothing to do but think will tend to crystalize things . . . bring priorities more into focus. It is something new for Kate Beckett. Ever since that evening two decades ago, priorities have never been in question. There was her mom, her mom's killer, and justice. Everything else – everyone else – took a back seat.

But isolation – and endless thinking – can cause one to question those priorities. Reshape them.

She touches her text message to him once again, and frowns. The app tells her that he's read the text. Four minutes ago. But no reply. This can't be good. Once again she berates herself mentally.

"You're such a chicken-shit, Kate," she mutters to herself, chastising herself for taking the easy way out. Texting instead of calling.

"You're gone four months and you can't even call him," she continues, angrily. "Didn't you learn anything in Romania?"

.

 _ **FLASHBACK to August 18, 2013, sometime in the afternoon in Romania**_

.

Her shoulders are burning, and her head is light. She is barely holding on to consciousness, as is everyone around her. The heat is oppressive, but only because of the exertion being offered. She opens her eyes for a second or two, just to get a glimpse of Solaise Sauntiago, the beautiful and somewhat scary Cuban she has become acquainted with while here. Although right at this moment, Sauntiago is anything but frightening. Kate looks in her eyes and sees the same emotions she herself is feeling.

Fear. Desperation. And pure agony.

Sauntiago meets her gaze, and for just an instant, the Cuban woman's eyes blaze, giving Beckett a jolt of strength. She smiles in gratitude, but the smile is short-lived as the burn kicks in once again.

Neither woman glances down. Hanging some twenty feet above the ground, they are two of roughly twenty women hanging on the rope above. Each one hangs, with one arm tied to the rope above, and the other arm locked around the elbow of the woman next to her. It is almost funny. During the first minute, the thought of a barrel of monkeys entered Kate's mind.

Now?

Such childish playground thoughts are far, far behind. She knows she has zoned out, but the rising, cadence-like voice of Amalia finds its way back into her consciousness. The hardened woman below them is a somewhat of a horror-story drill instructor, as she counts out the time, second by second. In the distance, however, Elena Markov's words - softer, yet no less aggressive - rise above the cacophony of sounds – above the cadence, above the grunting and tearful whimpering of her comrades.

And today's topic? Certainly an odd one given the physical exertion taking place.

"Love," Elena begins. She walks underneath the hanging women, fixtures in the air. They resemble gruesome fairies from a gift shop, hanging in the window. Each woman wears a t-shirt and shorts. Nothing more. No shoes, no undergarments.

Contrasted against the women above her, Elena wears jeans, a t-shirt and boots. Her hands are in her pocket. Her hair blows in the breeze that is no longer felt by any of the women hanging above her.

"Love is beautiful," she continues louder now. "When it is pure."

She approaches Kate now, some fifteen feet away, but her eyes are solidly fixated on the ex-Federal agent.

"When pure, there is nothing that compares, no?"

She takes another step closer.

"But only when it is pure."

Another step. She is close now, and her voice seems to ring in Kate's ears.

"Is your love pure? Was your love pure?"

Kate blinks away tears of pain, as her arms – now jelly – threaten to give way. Mercifully, Sauntiago senses her momentary weakness and tightens her grip around the rope on her wrist, tied to the horizontal rope which holds them all. This give and take – taking turns – has been going on for the past – hell, neither can remember how long they have been hanging.

What number is Amalia barking out now anyway?

It doesn't matter. Elena's voice lumbers back to the forefront.

"That man who professed his love for you? That woman who told you that you were everything to her? Was that pure love?"

" _Would you just shut up!"_ Kate thinks to herself, trying – unsuccessfully – to block out the words. Words that seem aimed perfectly at her.

"Love is patient," Elena continues, unrelenting. She is directly under Kate now, and has stopped.

"Were you patient? Or did you get impatient, waiting for more . . . always wanting more . . . never satisfied with the moment? Or did he?"

Despite herself, despite what's left of her consciousness screaming at her not to . . . Kate looks down. And yeah, sure enough, the bitch is right below her. Staring up at her. Directly at her.

"Love is kind. Was she kind to you? Was he," she adds with emphasis, starting solely at Kate Beckett.

"Kindness means at that moment, what you want is far more important to me than what I want. Kindness means I want to do something good for you, with no expectations. That is kindness. No expectations. Were you kind to him? Were you kind to her? Yes or no, Sisters."

She continues moving onward, thankfully, but her words have struck home, her aim true.

"There is no in-between," she continues, glancing back at Kate. The look between the two women is not lost on Sauntiago, who stays quiet.

"Love does not keep a record of wrongs. Did you forgive and forget? Did he? Did he ever throw a mistake back in your face? Did you to him? Or to her?"

Elena turns now, so that her voice carries to all of the women along the line above her. She knows they are – literally – at the end of their rope. Just a few minutes longer. She forces herself to contain the smile of pride for her sisters above.

"That is not love, sisters. Love doesn't do that. I know by now each of you wants desperately to be somewhere else . . . with someone else . . . but if that is your experience of love, then it is damaged. It falls short of the glory of real love. It is a diamond with a flaw."

She begins walking back toward Kate, passing underneath the women. She hears it watering the ground before she smells it. Urine, falling from above, from Candace. The Australian. There is no shame. The body can take only so much.

"For that reason," Elena continues, "Because love is fickle, because love is fleeting . . . because very few of you know how to love like this, because very few of you have been loved like this . . ."

Standing directly underneath Beckett once more, she raises her eyes to stare at the woman above her. But Beckett's eyes are clinched shut now, struggling with the task at hand.

"Always remember," she tells them. She tells her. She repeats it.

"Always remember, there is a greater cause than love . . . unless your love is pure."

Elena gives the signal to Amalia, who nods her head. The Romanian slowly begins to crank the lever, lowering the rope, inch by inch. Almost immediately, grateful grunts and sighs are heard overhead.

"Is yours?" Elena asks. "Was yours?"

She spits onto the ground for emphasis.

"I did not think so! So put away childish things, Sisters! There are important tasks ahead. Tasks not to be derailed by make-believe love."

She gives another signal to the Romanian, who immediately stops lowering the ropes. Just as quickly, the loss of momentum is felt by the women above. A couple of shrieks can be heard, while the sound, smell and eventual landing of vomit from one of the unfortunates accompanies the halting.

"If your love was real . . . if you really loved him . . . if you really loved her . . . you would not be here. You would not have accepted this invitation."

Nodding again, she instructs Amalia to continue lowering the women.

"Perhaps love is not for you. Or perhaps it is. But put away childish wishes! Your sister next to you needs you! She needs your strength! You cannot let her down!"

Suddenly, the rope pulls upward, back towards the sky another three feet, bringing groans and cries of desperation from every single one of the women hanging.

"Over a man?! Never! Over another woman?! Never!"

Elena allows the groans to continue for another twenty or thirty seconds before nodding one final time to Amalia. Slowly, the rope begins to lower again, this time much more quickly. The descent is faster than the women expect, and more retching can be heard.

"We have no time for foolish whims like make-believe love. There is something inside you more powerful . . . far more powerful than love."

She waits until the women touch ground, as Amalia drops the rope completely now. Weakened legs give in completely as the women all but hug the earth that evaded them.

"Unless that love is pure," Elena finishes, her eyes once again on Kate Beckett.

Kate, for her part, is fighting to stay conscious, now unaware of the gaze upon her. Oh, she hears the words. Elena makes certain of that. But her eyes remain closed.

Until Solaise Sauntiago, lying next to her, speaks.

"What was his name?" Sauntiago asks her, her own gaze wavering.

Kate turns her head toward the Cuban, tears stinging her eyes and cheeks.

"Rick," she tells her. "Richard Castle."

"The writer?" Sauntiago asks, incredulously.

"The writer," Kate confirms. There is silence for a few more seconds.

"What was his name?" Kate reciprocates.

" _Her_ name," Solaise corrects her. "Maria," she continues. "My Maria."

"The Virgin Mary," Kate mumbles.

"Oh, she was far from virginal," Solaise Sauntiago chuckles. Kate joins her in a short chuckle herself before unconsciousness mercifully greets her.

.

 _ **Back to December 17, 2013, now 9:05 p.m., At Kate Beckett's New Apartment in NYC**_

.

She doesn't realize she is smiling when she snaps back to the present. For such a traumatic exercise, she is continually surprised at how well she remembers virtually everything Elena had said at the time. Words that found a home, and were nurtured and watered during captivity in the mountains. Words that have forced her to rethink everything. How she felt about Richard Castle. How she treated him. How she thought about him . . . about them . . . and how she wonders the same about him.

Gazing down at her phone, she realizes that it has been almost fifteen minutes since Richard Castle saw her text. And there is still no reply.

Frowning, she clicks on his contact information, and does what she figures she should have done in the first place – and hours ago at that.

It rings once, twice, three times. She is convinced he's going to ignore her and let it roll to voice mail when she hears the voice that she had memorized in the cave.

"What is it, Beckett?"

It doesn't matter that the tone is harsh, or the words worse . . . just his voice is enough for the moment. She wastes no time.

"I should have called, instead of texting. I'm sorry," she begins, and the apology throws him for a moment. He is angry. He wants to be angry. He wants to hang up, to hurt her like she has hurt him. But the apology halts him.

"I missed you, Rick," she tells him, and even before he reacts, she knows it is the wrong thing to say. There is no reason he will believe that. He has no reason to. He doesn't understand she didn't reach out to him before now because she couldn't.

"Don't, Beckett," he argues, the anger returning. "Just don't. Four months. Four months you're gone, three months longer than you promised. And the first thing I get is a text? 'Hey, how's it going, Wow do I have a tale for you!'

He rubs a hand brusquely through his hair as he continues, months of anger exploding.

"Well, just don't, okay! You made your point loud and clear over the past few months and –"

"Rick, wait. You don't understand. I –"

"I understand well enough," he interrupts. "I'm busy in the morning."

The dead air tells her she is on the phone by herself. She wasn't sure how their first interaction would go, but honestly she isn't that surprised. Of course he'd be angry, and hurt, and confused . . . and yeah, angry again. She can't really blame him.

" _Give him some time,"_ she thinks to herself, but just as quickly at the thought arrives, she pushes it immediately out of her mind. There are murders occurring in the city. Murders that touch close to her. Whether he likes it or not, that means these are murders that can potentially touch close to him, eventually.

" _Sorry, Rick,"_ she mutters _. "Time is the one thing we don't have right now."_

She picks up the phone again, touching the redial icon. She listens to four rings before the phone call goes to voice mail.

" _Hi, this is Richard Castle, I'm sorry I –"_

Hanging up, she hits redial again. This time, no rings. The call goes right to voice mail. Surprisingly, she smiles at the development.

" _It's not that easy, Rick,"_ she offers out loud, as she hits redial again. And again. It takes seven calls of perseverance before she is rewarded.

"Dammit, Kate, now listen –"

"No, _you_ listen, Rick," she interrupts, probably a little more harshly than intended, but so be it. They don't have time for this. Yeah, isolation crystalizes some things.

"We are meeting in the morning for breakfast, whether you like it or not," she begins. "I have desperately wanted to see you – and the reason why that didn't happen will become obvious to you in the morning. But right now, more than missing you, I am worried for you – for your family."

"Kate –"

"Someone wanted me here, Castle," she continues, ignoring him and intentionally reverting back to his last name. Perhaps that is more comfortable for him, she wonders, but she tosses that thought aside as well.

"Someone wanted me here badly. Badly enough to kill for it. So I'm here. Whatever happens next will happen soon. If Gates knows I'm here, then I have to assume whoever this is who wanted me here will know soon enough. But they don't know that right now. They don't know I'm back yet. So anyone is fair game to them, to get me back here. You're fair game. Martha, Alexis . . . they're fair game. So we don't have time for childish games of hurt and stubbornness . . . no matter how warranted they may be."

Those last words, and the very idea of Alexis harmed gets him. She takes a few seconds to allow the words, the thoughts to sink in. On the other end of the phone, an angry author, his cell phone shaking in his hand next to his ear, recalls the words of his friend earlier tonight.

" _She's different Castle."_

" _You will have to see for yourself."_

He's angry, all right. He has every reason to be angry. Yet her own words acknowledge that.

" _No matter how warranted they may be."_

That in itself is different.

Kate Beckett acknowledging a wrong-doing regarding him? Regarding them?

Outside of that one night, that one rainy night . . . Alexis' graduation evening . . . outside of that, Beckett rarely acknowledges a personal mistake.

Not when it's about them.

All of his anger, all of his disappointment . . . she's right . . . none of that may matter in a few days. Dammit, she's right, as usual.

"Fine," he tells her. "Where do –"

"Benny's diner," she tells him, anticipating his question. She picks this diner for two reasons. First, she knows they both love the city diners. And second . . . this one is half a block from her book store. She is hoping that his natural curious nature will extend the breakfast, that he will want to at least take a glance at her store. And give them a little more time.

He thinks for a few seconds, before replying.

"I'll see you at nine," he tells her, and hangs up again.

She glances at her phone, a mixed look on her face. She knows it is his way of taking back control. Still, it stings.

" _Twice in one night,"_ she considers to herself, now seriously wondering – for the first time – if they are damaged beyond repair. Just as quickly, she puts the thought out of her mind.

"It will take time," she reminds herself. "Patient. Kind. Forgiving," she says aloud, almost to will the words into reality as she begins to undress and heads toward the shower, thinking about breakfast, thinking about what she will say.

.

 _ **The next morning, December 18, 2013, 6:44 a.m., At Detective Javier Esposito's Apartment in the city**_

.

He is humming to himself, a cheerful Latin tune as his feet speed up into a quick salsa motion as he butters the toast that has just popped up. The glass of orange juice in his hand sways with the imaginary music he hears as his thoughts consider the day ahead.

Beckett's back.

Holiday.

Castle's reaction.

Gate's stubbornness.

It's going to be a busy day, he knows. For now, he has a few more moments to himself before leaving for the precinct. He checks his messages – both phone and email. He does a quick search for current news and is relieved to find nothing more on the Holiday killer. It's nothing more than a delay, just a reprieve, he knows, but still it is welcome news.

Swallowing the toast in two bites, he downs the orange juice in three large gulps and places the empty glass into the dishwasher, and turns the appliance on. Leaning over the kitchen sink, he washes his mouth out, chuckling. Lanie would be pissed, of course, to see him use the kitchen faucet, but she isn't here.

Wiping his mouth dry, he moves to the edge of the counter and grabs his shoulder holster with his weapon, and places it around his shoulder. Sliding into his jacket, he grabs his apartment keys and heads to his front door. He opens the door, still happy, still humming. Immediately he is bumped backwards, and he almost falls to the floor – his long-time training kicking in to keep him on his feet.

He stares at the body that evidently was propped up against his door.

He doesn't know the man, who is obviously very dead. Just a stranger at first glance. It's the second glance that does it, however. In his hand is the classic Tiffany blue bag, his fingers somehow tightly clutching the bag. Javier pries the bag from his fingers, and glances inside, careful not to disturb anything. It doesn't matter. A glance is enough, as the detective frowns, and retrieves his cell phone from his pocket.

He steps into the hallway outside his front door, glancing up and down. Outside of the dead body here, nothing else seems out of order. And it's too early for Jerry, his neighbor to have awakened and seen this. Jerry doesn't head for work for at least another couple of hours.

Punching the digits in his cell phone, he waits two rings before getting a reply.

"This is Captain Gates," his boss answers. "A little early to be getting a call from you, isn't it, Detective Esposito?"

"I wish, sir," he replies. "It's Holiday. We have another victim."

"What?" she responds, surprised. "I've been following the news this morning, and haven't seen any alerts. Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure," he chuckles, despite himself. "Body is here with me."

"You're at the precinct already?" she asks, again surprised.

"No, sir," he corrects her. "I'm here at home."

"The body is at your house?"

"Outside my front door," he tells her. "Okay, actually, at the moment, it is half inside and half outside my apartment."

"You're sure it's Holiday?" she asks.

"Yeah," he tells her, forgetting protocol for the moment. "Clutching a Tiffany's bag with five gold rings inside."

"Dammit," Gates remarks, now very concerned at how close this is hitting . . . at how personal this has suddenly become.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly," he confirms. He pushes the body to the side, just enough to see the blood on the lower back. He knows the name he will find carved into the body underneath, but he has to check anyway. He lifts up the shirt gently, and curses aloud.

"Shit."

"Detective, what is it?" she asks.

"Shit," he repeats. He can't find the words.

"Detective Esposito. What is it?"

He could reply. Instead, he hangs up.

"Gotta call you back, Captain," he tells her as he disconnects. He pulls up the camera icon for his phone and clicks a couple of pictures. Satisfied, he sends one of the pictures to Gates. Without thinking, he sends the picture a second time, this time to Kevin Ryan.

In the city, at her residence, Captain Gates hears the incoming notification and clicks on the text from Detective Esposito.

"Shit," she remarks, frowning at both the picture and the word she rarely uses.

The picture is of a back of a deceased man, with the word 'Castle' carved into the bloody skin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Holiday – Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 7:25 a.m. At a Colonial Home in Washington, D.C.**_

.

The doorbell rings, startling both the Senator and his wife who are sitting down for breakfast. No one visits this early in the morning, and when they do, it is never good news. The Senator frowns as he rises up from the small, two-person table in the kitchen that overlooks their backyard. A tiny layer of snow covers the dead grass thanks to the small winter dusting the city received last night and into the wee hours of the morning.

"I'll get it," Senator Bracken tells his wife as he moves toward the hallway leading to the front door.

"I'll wait for you," Elizabeth Bracken replies, dropping her fork and reaching for her glass of orange juice, as she picks up the newspaper that her husband has left behind. She smiles to herself, marveling once again at her high-tech husband's penchant for holding the local Washington 'old-school' newspaper in his hands as opposed to accessing it on the internet . . . as he does virtually everything else, including newspapers from around the world.

The man in question walks briskly to the door, seeing a single figure on the other side through the distorted glass pane of the massive wood door. He opens the door to a familiar face.

"William," Elena greets him in her usual fashion. She is wearing gray utility clothing from a satellite TV company. Her name tag says 'QUEEN', which brings a smile to the Senator's face.

"Miss Queen," he returns her greeting with a chuckle, but his face just as quickly turns serious. "It has been a while."

"This morning's assignment sheet placed you on my list," she replies, ignoring his statement. "I understand you have been having trouble with your reception."

"Yes, yes, I just placed a call last night," he agrees, catching on to the role. The satellite is on the roof ledge in the back of the house. I will walk you around."

"Oh no, if it is all right with you," she counters, "I'd like to walk through the house. See the sights, as it were," she continues, smiling. He knows that it isn't a question or a suggestion. He has learned to allow his top assassin her little . . . idiosyncrasies.

He leads her through the opulent home, no doubt the decorations come from his wife, she thinks to herself. Seconds later they are in the kitchen, and the Senator is grateful that his wife is fully dressed this morning for her eight-thirty meeting – a philanthropic fundraiser of some sort.

"Liz, this is Miss Queen from the satellite company," he begins as his wife raises a startled gaze to the newcomer. "I called them last night about reception problems I noticed. She just needs to check a few things out on the satellite unit on the roof," he continues as he walks Elena Markov through the kitchen to the back door.

"I should only be a half hour or so, ma'am, hopefully," Elena tells Mrs. Bracken, holding the utility ladder horizontally, and immediately walks out the door held open by the Senator.

"Give me a second, I'll be right back," he tells his wife, and is out the door quickly.

He gets to her as she lays the ladder against the side of the house, putting a single foot on the first step before turning to face the Senator.

"Thank you for taking care of my two bishops," he begins. "I haven't seen you in months. I began to think –"

"You're welcome," he tells her "I did call, as you know."

"Yes, yes," he agrees. "I also, however, asked you to keep an eye on a certain novelist."

"And I did that for you as well," she begins, and raises her hand against his objection before he can voice it. "The videos. The author and the redhead. Who do you think gave those to you?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he finds himself agreeing once again. "Thank you. It does appear that our writer has moved on."

"It would appear so," she concurs. "That is not why I am here, however."

"I didn't think so," he remarks, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to counter the morning cold.

"Troubles?" she chuckles.

"Nothing I can't handle," he offers brusquely. "So I know you didn't come to chit chat. What can I do for you?"

"You for me? Nothing at all," she smiles. "Your detective is back."

"What?" he asks, now completely immune and unaware of the morning cold. Kate Beckett disappeared months ago. He has enjoyed her absence, and was understandably disturbed when the recent holiday-themed killings in New York came to his attention.

"How do you know?" he asks.

"I make it my business to know," she replies.

"It's the killings, isn't it?" he ponders angrily.

"I would assume so," she agrees.

"You never assume . . . about anything," he counters. "Dammit, I wanted her out of the picture. Wherever she was for the past few months, she was out of my hair. That's all that was important. Now someone has brought her back."

"It would appear so," Elena tells him.

"Dammit all to hell," he muses aloud.

"What would you have me do?" she asks, waiting for his orders.

He is silent for a moment as he thinks, running his hands through his hair. He hasn't gotten to where he is by just reacting to unforeseen events. His strength is planning, executing strategy – not merely reacting in a knee-jerk manner.

'For now . . . nothing," he tells her finally. "I do not want to do anything rash. Her absence was unplanned for, but timely. I was able to take advantage of that. Her return was not planned for either. Let me think."

He turns away from her, taking a couple of steps toward the yard as he gazes upward at the dreary sky. The forecast calls for more snow. It's going to get colder and whiter throughout the day.

"Who did this?" he asks.

"Did what?"

"Brought her back," he asks. "Who's doing the killing?"

"I don't know," Elena replies truthfully.

"Find out," he hisses, then catches himself and softens. "Please. Find out who has done this. That is what I would like for you to do for me."

"And when I find them?" she wonders aloud.

"Let me know," he replies quickly, not wanting her to resort to more permanent measures. "Nothing extreme. I am very interested to know why someone wants Kate Beckett so badly."

"The author perhaps?" Elena offers.

"He's no killer," Bracken retorts. "Anyway, he has moved on."

"You never know," she counters, enjoying the little game she is playing.

"He is not this kind of killer, at least," he tells her. "I have met him. Looked him in the eyes. He is not this kind of man."

"Her father?" she offers.

"An interesting choice," he agrees. "But doubtful."

"Who then?" she asks aloud – wondering where his mind is really going.

"That's what I'd like for you to find out," he tells her, now beginning to walk back toward the house. "She was a detective in the biggest city in the world. She had to have made enemies besides me. Someone she put away. Perhaps the family member of someone she put away. But someone has a hard-on for her and I want to know who . . . and why."

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 8:57 a.m. At Benny's Diner in the city, a block from Kate's bookstore**_

.

Richard Castle – as is his custom – is early for their breakfast meeting. It has nothing to do with any type of anxiousness to sit down with his ex-lover. That lost status seems so far in the past. Now he sits here wondering what exactly he is even going to say to this woman. She has made a habit – intentionally or not – of showing him a carrot and then pulling it away in the most emotionally brutal fashion. And though he is honest enough with himself to admit that he – for the first month or two – missed his ex-detective, as more time went by, her absence incited more anger and disappointment than anything else.

So he is surprised at himself when he sees her walk through the doors of the diner, and his heart . . . or perhaps it is his stomach . . . betrays him with a series of gymnastic flips. Despite himself, he is taken aback as she approaches him with a smile he is not used to seeing on that face.

Bright, genuine and just for him.

Her hair is longer than he's ever seen her wear it. She looks fit. She looks absolutely ravishing . . . but in a different way. He stands to pull the seat out for her and notices it right away. Esposito was right. There is an edge to her now. An air of . . . he can't put his finger on it. But he sees it in her eyes, in how she carries herself.

She seems more beautiful, if that were even possible, and yet somehow . . . scarier.

Kate Beckett, in turn, has to fight just to not launch herself into his arms. Seeing him in person – after all this time – is different than the dozens of video images of the man that bombarded her for the past few months. She has almost forgotten how much taller he is. His hair is the same – maybe a tad bit longer. The scruff of a two-day shade catches her eye. She wants to reach out and touch it.

As she pulls closer, she walks into his outstretched arm and breathes in his scent. Even this is different. A different cologne than she remembers. She idly wonders what else has changed.

Their hug is polite, chaste, with each holding back. At least initially. Suddenly what was intended by both to be nothing more than a friendly pat-on-the-back-hug begins to turn like the worm. He tightens his hold while she buries herself in his chest. It is just an extra second or two. But they both sense it.

They pull away quickly, both blushing . . . and then even more embarrassed by that dual realization.

"Hi," he offers, immediately disappointed in himself.

"Hi," she returns.

" _Dammit, I've written dozens of books, I speak at hundreds of events, and the only thing I can come up with is 'Hi',"_ he thinks to himself, unaware of a similar reaction from the woman in front of him.

" _Three months locked up, staring at his face on stupid monitor and 'Hi' is all I can offer him,"_ she muses angrily to herself.

They stare at one another for another second before the moment passes. He points to the chair he has been holding for her.

"Sit, Kate . . . please," he requests.

"Thanks," she replies.

"You look . . . "

He can't even find the words, damn it all to hell.

"You, too," she remarks, and it brings a smile to both of their faces to realize how tongue-tied the other is for this reunion of sorts.

Thankfully, before another word can be spoken, the waitress – a fifty-something year old with black hair and a tinge of gray streaks breaks the awkwardness and is placing waters in front of each of them. She is mumbling something they both have missed.

"I'm sorry," Castle tells the waitress. "I didn't catch that . . . or your name."

"Angie, and coffee," she replies. "Do either of you want coffee?"

He glances at Beckett, knowing her answer already – or at least so he thinks.

"Yes, please," Kate answers. "Coffee, plain, no sugar."

"Plain?" he wonders aloud to his companion. "Since when?"

"Since . . . just plain, please," she repeats again for both Castle and Angie. It forces him to wonder what else is different about the woman next to him.

"So," he begins, searching for the right words, now clearly frustrated. Words have never come hard for him. Words of love, words of anger, words of comfort – they have always been easy for him.

So where are those words now?

She, for her part, knows what he wants to ask. It is predictable, and understandable. Where has she been? Why was she gone for so long? So much longer than she had initially told him. And why no word from her?

She won't make him ask. She knows that transparency has always been an issue with her . . . and therefore with them. The more proactive she is, the better this is going to go. And even then, there are no promises . . .

"I was in Romania," she starts, and of course, he immediately interrupts.

"I thought you were going to Russia," he says with surprise.

"So did I," she counters. It is best to be honest.

"What happened?" he asks, his fingers grazing against the glass of water on the table.

"A boot camp of sorts," she laughs. "That's the only way to describe it."

"Military?" he asks, his eyes widening slightly. She knows it is the writer in him, the inquisitive nature, the curiosity that originally drove her batty early in their . . . relationship . . . but that she had grown to love, and now miss.

"In a way, yes," she replies, 'and in a way not."

Her mind takes her back to some of the topics of conversation – if you could call it that – that Elena and others inundated them with during some of the more brutal physical exercises. Loyalty. Justice. Mercy. And yes, love.

Not exactly military, no.

"For four months?" he asks.

"Not exactly," she responds, honestly. She notices the look he is giving her and she quickly continues before he can misunderstand further.

"For everyone else, yes, it was about a month," she continues. "When we were finished, I thought I was finished, too. I thought I was coming home. But I was taken into the mountains. Left there for three months."

"The Carpathians?" he asks, and she can only smile as she sees his eyes light up further, that writer's imagination now kicked into full gear. She chuckles as she continues.

"Nothing so adventurous, Rick. She placed me in a cave."

"She?" he inquires, his mind still ravaging through a mountain range he has long wanted to visit. The backdrop of many a story, not the least of which pertains to a certain mythical vampire.

"Elena," she replies, and he simply nods in understanding. "She closed me in. Locked in me. Isolation."

"Wait . . . what?" he interrupts, now hearing the rest of her story.

"Isolation," she remarks without emotion. "Me. A bed. A small kitchen. A toilet. No phone. No internet. Dark lights. Pleasant place."

She intentionally leaves out the television screens. He doesn't need to know all of it. But then it hits her. That has been their problem. At least the problem that can be laid at her feet. Disclosure. Or rather, lack of it.

"And television monitors," she finally adds, correcting herself. "No news, no shows. Just video images that they wanted me to see."

Brainwashing is the first thing that comes to his mind, and suddenly he is now worried about the woman sitting with him. How damaged is she? Does she even know? What type of conditioning did they put her through?

Fortunately, she sees his concern immediately, and attempts a bit of levity.

"Don't worry, Castle," she interrupts his thinking. "They didn't plant any trigger words in me."

"How do you know?" he asks, clearly concerned.

"I don't," she laughs.

"That's reassuring."

"No. That's the truth," she tells him.

"So why did you come back?" he asks. "I mean now that –"

"She let me out," Kate interrupts. "The killings here. She knew they would continue if I didn't come back. So she let me out early."

"How early? How long were you going to be there?" He ponders with her.

"I have no idea," she tells him. "It was supposed to be three to four months. But could have gone longer."

"Why?"

"I don't know why."

"So . . . the reason . . ." He pauses, trying to gather his thoughts around this new information. "So the reason you didn't come back sooner was –"

"Because I couldn't," she interrupts again, finishing his train of thought. "Literally, I was in a cave, in a cell of isolation."

"All for this new . . . thing of yours?" he asks.

"Yes."

He takes a long swallow of water. This isn't what he expected. But he knows he shouldn't be surprised. Has anything ever been normal with this woman?

"So now you're back," he begins a new train of thought.

"Yes, I'm back," she agrees. She will let him play this out.

"So what will you do now?" he asks. "You own a book store –"

"Yes, I do," she smiles. "Kind of ironic."

"I'd say it's pretty cool," he deadpans.

"I agree with you," she smiles. "I was hoping you'd want to go see it after we eat. It's just down the block."

He nods his head in agreement, and she makes a mental note that – if nothing else – she is declaring victory for this entire breakfast. Now all she has to do is not screw it up before they finish. And they are just getting started, she knows.

"What will you do now? About the killings? About this Holiday person, I mean?" he asks.

"Wait," she replies.

"Excuse me?" he asks, surprise in his voice. This, too, is an unexpected response.

"I will wait," she tells him.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing.

"Wait? Wait for what? Another body?" he asks, his voice rising slightly.

"Rick –" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"No, I'm sorry," he continues. "It's just that you said you came back for the killings –"

"No," she corrects him. "I said I came back _because of_ the killings. Not _for_ the killings"

"It's the same thing –"

"No, it's not," she corrects him again. "I am not looking for anyone. I'm not hunting anyone. I'm simply waiting."

"For what?" he asks, now fully exasperated. This isn't the Kate Beckett he knows. She doesn't wait on anyone, for anyone. She takes action. She hunts, she searches until she finds answers. That's who she is.

Or at least, who she was.

"Someone wants me, Rick," she tells him, and she risks reaching across the table and settling her hand on his. He watches it, and the unexpected move almost burns – but he resists the impulse to pull away from her.

"Badly enough to kill," she continues. "Someone wants me here. Well, now I am here. They will find me."

"Do you think they will come looking for you?" he asks, still not convinced. "Hell, how do they even know that you're back?"

"They'll know," she says knowingly, and something about her statement, her eyes – it frightens him. A tingle sprints down his spine. Yeah, scary.

"You do know there was another killing," he tells her.

"No, I didn't know that," she says, retracting her hand from his. The absence is almost immediate – for both of them, as they stare at his hand left on the table.

"When?" she asks.

"This morning," he replies. "It hasn't made the news yet. Gates has decided to sit on it for a couple of hours. Not sure why."

"How'd you hear about it?" she wonders aloud.

"Javier called me," he answers. "He's been keeping me updated because of . . . because . . . well because it's you. We know this has something to do with you, with someone calling you out. But he sounded different."

"Different how?" she asks, and now her alarm bells are going off.

"I don't know. Couldn't put my finger on it. But it was almost like . . . I don't know . . . almost like he wasn't telling me something."

She makes a mental note to place a call to her old friend after breakfast. If she has learned nothing else about Richard Castle, it is this: Sure, his theories may be out of this world and completely off base, but his instincts, the feelings he has that create those outlandish theories . . . those feelings are usually spot on.

"Anyway, they found the body this morning," he continues. "And get this – it was outside Espo's door."

"What?"

"Yeah, body leaning against his front door. Clutching a Tiffanys bag with five gold rings inside."

"Outside Javi's home?" she asks again.

"Yep," is the single response she gets.

"That's a message," she says aloud.

"Yeah, you think?" he remarks, more to himself than anything else. He gazes at her once again. Surely this will spur her to action. People are dying. And it's getting closer to all of them now – not just her. And that is without him realizing that the name carved into this latest body is his name!

""So, again . . . what are you going to do?" he asks again.

"Rick, I told you," she tells him softly. "I'm going to do nothing."

She sees his face contort, and it's all she can do not to laugh. He never was good at holding his emotions, his reactions. She wonders how he became such a good poker player when clearly he doesn't have the poker face down . . . even after all these years.

"Rick, I'm not a cop anymore. I'm not a federal agent. I'm just a civilian –"

"You are anything but a civilian, Beckett," he argues, and she can't help but notice his use of her last name. Fortune intervenes however, as Angie returns to interrupt the discussion.

"Are you two ready to order?" she asks, as she pours a cup of steaming coffee for Kate.

"Yes, yes, we are," Castle replies. "You first," he tells Kate as he glances down quickly at the menu to decide what to order.

Outside, unbeknownst to both of them, a lone figure stands against the window, looking in at the estranged couple at the table. The cold winter wind causes the figure to bundle the coat tighter, and the hood covers most of the face. The figure watches for another second or two before walking on, and hailing a cab.

.

 **A/N:** This is a good stopping point, as there is much more to this breakfast meeting. More next time. I hope everyone is having a great summer!


	7. Chapter 7

**Holiday – Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 **A/N:** I hope everyone has been having a great summer. This chapter took longer to write and get posted than I planned, as I had to get my latest work edited and published. So it was actually a decent reason for the delay this time (smile).

The next chapter is almost ready to be posted, so it won't be nearly as long moving forward. Hopefully I will start posting at my normal pace. With that – we pick this up where we left off . . . at Benny's diner with Kate and Castle meeting for breakfast.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 9;20 a.m. At a Benny's Diner in New York City**_

.

"I'll have the same," Richard Castle tells Angie as he hands her the crumpled menu. He is radiating that familiar smile. She has missed this more than she realized.

"A spinach omelette, Castle?" Kate questions. "Since when?"

"It sounded interesting," he offers quietly, his eyes on the retreating figure of their waitress. Once she is out of earshot, he turns his full attention back to the woman next to him.

"So," he continues, "back to where we were, before we were so rudely interrupted." He finishes the sentence with the Richard Castle flair she had long ago come to expect. The smile on her face broadens without her knowledge.

"We were talking about Javier, the most recent killing, my time in Romania," she answers, still smiling. "We have talked about everything but you. What have you been up to?"

In truth, she already knows. Or at least has a good idea. The videos from the cave kept her up to speed. Repeatedly.

"Nothing much," he replies, but his eyes dart quickly to the table – to the utensils, the napkins – before they find hers again.

"Rick," she replies, caution evident in her voice. "I was honest with you. I know I haven't been in the past. Let's –"

"Honestly, nothing –", he interrupts, but she is quicker.

"Regardless of what we are ever again," she interrupts his interruption. "Regardless, no more secrets. Deal?"

He stares at her for a moment, an expression painting his face that she has not seen before. She finds it puzzling, now curious as to where is his mind is going. Seconds pass before he answers.

"I have been . . . wandering," he finally replies. "And wondering."

"How so?" she asks, eyebrows raised, her curiosity increasing as she wonders how transparent he will be . . . wondering exactly how far they have fallen.

"I've met a few new friends," he begins. "Dangerous friends."

"Are there any other kind?" she asks, her smile still in place, but slowly shrinking.

"You don't seem too surprised," he notices.

"Well, your wealth of contacts in the past – and their proclivities toward questionable behavior – has always amazed me," she offers, chuckling.

"Yeah, well –"

"And I'm also not surprised because I followed your . . . exploits . . . a bit while I was gone," she interrupts. She notices the look of surprise on his face and quickly adds, "Although not by choice."

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Remember, I mentioned there were TV monitors, and videos," she begins. "Some of the videos were from long, long ago. Others were far more recent."

"Explain," he says simply, now leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. She can tell she is starting to lose him

"The videos were always of two people," she frowns. "My mother. And you."

She takes a drink of water, just to wet her mouth, moisten her lips. Get her thoughts together. She's only going to get one shot at this.

"The videos of mom – every single one of them – were not videos at all. They were simply photographs, put together in video form. Still images of mom. Dead. Leaning against the wall in the alley. Crime scene photos."

"My God," Castle whistles, involuntarily leaning forward again, his elbows now resting on the table.

"Clearly Elena wanted me to see these images, to –"

"For God's sake, why?" he asks. "I mean, I thought she was a friend of yours. I thought you two were on the same side."

"I asked her the same question, on the plane ride back here to the States," she nods, remembering her conversation with the Russian. "She said she wanted to me to – and I quote now – 'get comfortable' with Mom's death."

"What?" he asks, incredulously.

"Yeah, I didn't get it either for a few seconds," she tells him. "Until I realized that, in fact, that is exactly what happened. Rick, for the first time in years I can think of Mom's death without the old emotions, the old anger flaring up. Don't get me wrong, I have been able to think fondly and happily _of Mom_ before. But not _of her death_. I didn't realize it until that moment on the plane that this had changed for me."

"So, she wanted you to get comfortable with your mother's death," he repeats. "So why the videos of me?"

"I never asked," she admits. "I think I figured that one out."

"What videos? What . . . did she pull out old photographs of me, too?" he asks.

"No," Kate replies. "Every video of you was full motion video – no photographs – and every video was recent. I am assuming as in each one was only days old."

She lets her words sink in, and the slightest recognition in his eyes tells her when it registers with him.

"She showed me videos of you and Selena. I think that was her name. And another woman. A red-head. A looker, as user," she adds.

She takes another sip of water before continuing. He is about to say something but she raises a hand to stop him.

"You don't owe me any explanations, Rick," she says softly. "I was gone. I left. Of my own free will. Of course, I ended up being kept against my will, but it doesn't matter. Every day, for over two months, I was bombarded with images of you and Mom. Every day. Every day I relived her death. Every day I lived you moving on."

"Why would video of me with other women matter to you?" he asks. He's not being confrontational, she realizes. "I mean, you've moved on from us."

"Have I?" she asks, almost under her breath.

"Dammit, Kate, no games!" he hisses, his voice rising before he glances quickly around the diner to make sure they haven't gathered unwanted attention.

"Wait a minute," he counters, now more curious than angry. "What videos? You mean someone has been watching me?"

"Well, yeah, that's what it means when someone videotapes you, Castle," she replies, a slight agitation creeping into her voice. "I was captive in an isolated cave. You were followed. All things considered, I think I got the worse end of that deal."

The tense silence between them starts out as seconds. Before long, an entire minute has passed without a word between either of them. Both use their glasses of water as instruments of comfort. They are saved when Angie returns with two glasses; orange juice for Kate and pineapple juice for Castle.

"Thank you, Angie," they both say simultaneously. It breaks the cloud that has settled over the table, as both remember the connection, the link they used to share.

"Déjà vu," he mentions softly, a wistful look on his face before he replaces it with the plain, blank stare that is more protecting.

Kate takes a long drag of the orange liquid, then puts the glass down with a little more force than planned.

"Castle," she begins, "I don't want to argue. I don't want to fight. This is the second time in longer than I want to think about that you and I find ourselves at a diner. That's been it –"

"You left," he tells her evenly.

"I know, I told you –"

"I mean for Washington," he reminds her. "You left. Not me. Didn't leave much time for us."

"I know that," she admits. This isn't going well. She stops and tries a different approach.

"I told you about the videos not to accuse you of anything," she tells him. "If you have moved on, then I . . . I have to accept that. I cannot fault you. Hell, to be honest, I don't know where I am."

She sees his look of disgust begin to grow. She needs to cut this off.

"I'm just being honest, Rick," she tells him, leaning toward him. "You told me that I hide things, I hide my feelings. I'm trying to be transparent. I don't know what you and I are, or ever will be. I just want to be better . . . whether it is as a friend, or something else."

She leans back in her chair, almost backing away.

"I'm really trying here, Castle," she tells him, and a silence descends upon the duo once more. She glances around the diner. They are surrounded by couples and individuals. Most of the conversations around them seem decidedly happier.

"I've seen Serena a few times," he tells her suddenly. "Eliza is a newer friend. She's the red-head. I'm not sure what we are, since you and I are being honest."

Kate nods her head. At least he is talking again.

"What is she like?" Kate asks, surprising herself with the question.

"They are both like you . . . and not like you at all," he answers, his fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Cards on the table, I haven't been looking for anyone. Serena and I are good friends. I think when we first met, she wanted something more, while I wanted you."

"I know," Kate tells him. "She told me that she doesn't take what doesn't belong to her."

"True," he smiles. "But now I have been more interested in her, but her interest in something deeper between us has been lacking. Her son is her focus now."

Kate nods with understanding. Searches on the internet had filled in some of the blanks regarding Serena's tragic circumstances.

"And Eliza . . . well," he continues, "Eliza is a completely different beast."

"Meaning?" she asks.

"She is Finn Rourke's daughter," he tells her, waiting for the reaction. He gives her a three-count, then releases his breath, surprised that the outburst has not come.

"Dangerous friends, indeed," is all she says, taking a drink of juice. "That's a whole box of matches you are playing with there, Castle."

"Tell me about it," he chuckles more to himself than anything else. "But she's nice, and not complicated."

"So uncomplicated is good?" Kate asks, now for the first time really considering the notion that she has lost this man for good.

"Uncomplicated is different," he replies thoughtfully. "Whether it is good or not remains to be seen."

Whatever response Kate Beckett has is lost in the shuffle of plates that suddenly appear on their table. Angie places the two plates of omelettes on either side of the table, along with a smaller plate of toast for Castle and fruit for Kate.

"Saved by the bell," he offers with a smirk. She decides humor is good, and doesn't reply. She digs into the plate with gusto.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"I haven't had decent meals not cooked by me in a while, Castle," she offers between bites. And you know my cooking prowess, so . . ."

He nods his head and takes his first bite as well, followed by a large bite of toast.

"Your definition of a 'decent meal' has regressed considerably," he tells her as he frowns at the now partially eaten toast.

"Why did you pick this place again?" he asks.

"It's close to my place," she tells him, taking another bite.

"Which one?"

"Both of them," she manages to get out with a full mouth of food. "Book store is a block down, my new place is a couple of blocks the other way."

His ringing phone interrupts both of their thoughts. Taking a look at the caller ID, he frowns and motions to Kate.

"Sorry, I need to take this," he tells her. "Javi."

He clicks the green button to answer, and is rewarded with his friend's voice.

"Hey Castle, I am interrupting anything?" he asks, almost hopefully.

"I'm with Beckett, if that's what you mean," he replies. "Is this call for me, for her, or both of us?"

"Observant as always, my man," Esposito remarks, but there is no humor or lightness in his voice.  
Put her on as well."

Castle hits the speaker icon, and immediately turns the volume down lower, motioning Kate to come forward to hear. He places the phone on the table between them, and moves closer to her. Once again, she notices the new cologne. They both lean their heads forward until they are almost touching. She notices him rubbing his upper lip.

"Was growing a mustache, just got rid of it," he tells her self-consciously, before turning his attention to their caller.

"You're on speaker now, Javi," Castle tells him. "So what's up? You and I already talked this morning, less than an hour ago."

"I know," Esposito tells him, "but the Captain was right with me, so I couldn't say much. She doesn't want you anywhere near this case, as you can imagine . . . and I didn't want her knowing who I was on the phone with."

"I had the sense you weren't telling me something, Javi," Castle whispers, just loud enough for their friend to hear.

"Yeah, well, it's kind of hard to tell you, so I will just tell you. Beckett needs to hear this, too."

"I'm here, Javi," Kate replies, voice low. Neither is eating now.

"The body I told you about this morning?" Javi begins.

"Yeah, the one outside your door?" Castle plays along.

"Well, there was something different about this body," Esposito tells them. "Beckett's mother's name wasn't carved into this one."

Both wince at his terminology, but both also know he is just being direct. And there really isn't another word for it. 'Carved' is the most accurate term.

"That's . . . interesting," Kate replies, thinking to herself.

"You said Beckett's mom wasn't carved into this one," Castle interrupts. "You didn't say there was no name."

"Astute as always, writer boy," Esposito chuckles, using the old familiar term that started out as a bit of a snub, but eventually grew on all of them.

"It was your name, Castle."

"What?" is the immediate reply from both Castle and Beckett.

"Don't you two start that mind-meld crap again now," Esposito remarks, smirking on the other end of the phone, unseen by the duo on the other end.

"What do you mean, _my_ name?" Castle asks, a bit a fear now creeping into his voice. Neither the woman next to him nor the man on the other end can blame him.

"Your name – Castle – carved into the body. And dropped at my doorstep," Esposito tells them.

"But why Castle?" Kate asks out loud.

"And why _your_ doorstep?" Castle asks. "If it is a message for me, why not my doorstep. It's not like where I live is this big secret."

"All good questions," Esposito agrees. "Kevin and I think . . ." He pauses for a few seconds, deciding whether to continue.

"What, Javi?" Kate asks.

"Kevin and I are wondering if this might not be better solved if we pull the old team together. Now before you say 'no', I know you two are on the outs and all, but you're having breakfast evidently. Someone is after you, Kate. They have been calling you out. Now they are calling Castle. And it comes to my doorstep."

"So that means they want you as well?" Castle asks out loud.

"Doubtful," Kate remarks. "On both counts."

"I agree," Esposito adds.

"How so?" Castle asks. "Her name, my name, now –"

"Whoever this is could have taken you at any time now, Castle. Same with me," Esposito tells him, as Kate nods.

"My bet is this person doesn't know I am back yet," Kate concludes. "So this may just be an escalation, a way of having you two reach out to me."

"That's one theory," Castle mutters.

"You have a better one?" Kate asks him, turning to face him. Their noses are almost touching, they are so close to each other now.

"Working on it," he replies angrily.

"Well, I've lost my appetite," Kate tells both men, completely pushing her plates away now, along with her glass of juice.

"Ditto," her ex-partner and lover replies. "Javi, you got anything else?"

"Naw man," comes the reply. "I couldn't tell you that when we talked this morning. But I wanted you to know as soon as possible. And that's not the kind of thing you text a man, you know?"

"No, no, I know, and thanks," Castle agrees. The trio say their goodbyes, and immediately Castle hangs up the call, and takes his wallet out. He leaves a fifty dollar bill on the table.

"Still as generous as ever," Kate remarks, knowing that Angie will be one happy woman in a few minutes when she comes back to their table.

"Let's get out of here," he tells her, as he rises from his chair. She is right with him, and a minute later they are on the street outside the diner. For a moment, they both just stand there, Castle gazing at the cars passing by, while Kate glances upward at the tall structures she has sorely missed seeing.

"We still have a lot to talk about, Castle," she begins.

"We do," he admits. "We can't do it all in one day, though."

"I know," she replies, still gazing up at the buildings before turning her attention back to him. "But given what we just learned from Javier, I think a few more minutes won't hurt."

"Well, where to?" he asks. "Seems you have two options for us close by."

"If we want a private conversation, I suggest my place," she offers. "I don't open the book store for another hour."

"Bankers hours already?" he deadpans, bringing a smile to her face.

"Just getting my feet wet, funny boy," she plays with him. Anyway, we can be at the apartment in less than ten minutes."

With that, she begins walking toward her apartment, stopping just to make sure he is walking with her. Satisfied when she sees him in lock step with her, she smiles and takes in a deep breath.

"Not the freshest air in the world," he tells her as they walk.

"Not even close," she agrees, "But you have no idea how much you miss it when you don't have it anymore."

"We _are_ still talking about the air, right?" he remarks softly, drawing another smile.

They walk in relative silence for the next few minutes. He can sense that she needs this solitude that the noisy city provides, given where she has been, and what she has been through. The cold air whips up momentarily, causing her to bump into him.

"Sorry," she mutters under her breath.

"No problem," he remarks, watching the cold air escape from his mouth. They cross the second street and turn the corner as she points ahead across the street from them.

"That's me right up there," she tells him, pointing to the five story building some forty or so yards ahead of them, across the street.

"Nice," he whistles as they cross the street, walking diagonally toward her apartment. It is a definite upgrade for the ex-detective. He idly wonders where Kate Beckett would have gotten the money for something this nice, on this side of the city.

"I know what you're thinking," she tells him, smiling. "I have the same –"

Her words are lost in the explosion that rocks the third floor of the building in question, as windows explode outward and flames begin licking the sky. The sound echoes throughout the street along both sides, and the force of the explosion knocks them backward.

From their vantage point on the ground, both look up simultaneously at the burning building.

"Well, _this_ certainly is déjà vu," he mumbles, trying to get his bearings as he rises to his feet. He reaches down to help her to a standing position.

"Where is a bath tub when you need one?" she replies, half chuckling. He can't help the smile that spreads across his face for an instant as they silently but quickly think back to another exploding apartment. They glance at each other still smiling, oddly. It's just the adrenaline, they both know this, and then it is gone, as realization kicks in.

"Well, whoever this is . . . they know you're here now."


	8. Chapter 8

**Holiday – Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 10:07 a.m. Outside Kate Beckett's New Apartment in New York City**_

.

"Okay, this is fast response, even on the best day in New York," Richard Castle observes, as he sits on the top of the stairs to the tall apartment structure across the street from the smoking remains of Kate Beckett's once-new apartment home. The flames are still spreading throughout the building, but the fire trucks are close now, judging from the sounds. He watches as the woman-in-question crosses the street, coming back toward him. She has a slight limp, he notices.

"You okay?" he asks, concern creeping into his voice.

"Fine," she replies, only now noticing the limp herself. "I've had far worse."

" _Yeah, different,"_ he reminds himself, quickly putting the thought out of his mind.

"The bleeding hasn't stopped, Castle," she tells him, her hand touching his forehead where he has scraped his head as they went airborne from the blast. She allows her fingers to linger – subconsciously – as she inspects the now constant flow of blood that slowly is soaking up the make-shift rag and dripping onto his face.

"This is going need stitches, Rick."

"I hate needles," he frowns, looking for a moment like the nine-year old boy she often accused him of being.

"You big baby," she chuckles. He doesn't laugh, or even crack a smile. He simply stares ahead at the flames from the building, not even bothering to guard himself against the increasing heat. The fire from across the street dances in his eyes, forcing Kate to turn her head and follow his gaze across the street. Finally, he looks at her once again.

"You're going to need a place to stay," he tells her.

"I don't know Rick. I'm not sure we want to go there, Rick," she tells him, glancing downward. Regardless of her feelings, she is not ready for this. Not ready to spend a night, or live during the day in the same home as him.

Not yet.

"Hey, I didn't mean for you to stay with me," he tells her. "Anyway, I am just trying to help –"

"I know, Rick. I know," she repeats. And I didn't mean that as it came out. I just . . . wait a minute . . . you aren't inviting me to stay with you?"

"Absolutely not," he replies, instantly realizing those words flew out much too quickly. "Sorry – my turn. I didn't mean it quite like that. I just don't think it is a good idea . . . for more reasons than I can count right now."

Yeah, he's already thought about the possibilities, and weighed the costs. Someone is after Beckett. So what else is new? A year ago he would have immediately taken her home. Back to _their_ home. Two years before that, he would have opened _his_ own home to her without a second thought. And he has, in fact, done just that upon occasion.

But now? Bringing this new - and largely unknown - Kate Beckett and her unseen enemies into his home – where his mother or daughter could potentially become targets . . . for some reason that isn't the straightforward conclusion he normally would have reached.

Not anymore.

"Don't worry," she answers, unable to keep all of the disappointment out of her voice this time. "I don't want to put you in harm's way. Although I suspect you already are."

"I was thinking the same thing," he admits, now quickly looking at her once again. "But I'm curious why you think so."

He notices she is now looking around, clearing searching . . . hunting for something, or someone. She cocks her head, then returns her attentions to him.

"What are you looking for?" he asks.

"Who . . . not what," she replies, risking another glance away, this time scanning the buildings for faces in the windows. She continues her visual scan, going quickly from building to building, frowning.

"Okay. _Who_ are you looking for, then?" he repeats.

"Whoever did this," she replies, as her thumb points back at the flames. She sees his questioning look.

"This is no coincidence, Castle," she begins. "My apartment blows up. Okay, fine. Been there, done that," she half smiles, causing both of them to rewind the clocks to . . . dare she say . . . happier days when the potential for them . . . for the chance at something more seemed far more likely than it does this morning. She pushes the thoughts away.

"But it blows just as I am walking toward it?" she continues. "Scratch that. It blows just as _you and I_ are walking toward it?"

"Hmmm," he wonders aloud, as she continues.

"Yeah, hmmm. Someone is after me. Yet they blow my home as I am approaching? Why not wait until I am inside? Until _we_ are inside?"

"You think they wanted me, too?" Castle asks. "I mean, we were just talking with Javier. He's right. Whoever this is, they know where I live. They know how to reach me. Why now?"

"One more minute, Castle," she continues, as if not hearing him. "Less than fifty more steps and I'm inside –"

" _We_ are inside," he corrects.

"No," she counters, placing a hand on his shoulder, checking out the wound on his forehead once more. "I think the only reason I am alive right now is because you are with me. Because you _were_ with me as I approached."

"What?" he asks, unconsciously removing his hand – and the bloody rag – from his forehead. She quickly catches his hand, gently moving it back into place to continue staunching the blood flow.

"Javier is right," she continues. "If someone wanted you dead, you'd be dead, Rick. Whoever is behind this has had plenty of opportunities to get to you. I, on the other hand, haven't been here. No one knows where I have been, and I have been back in New York all of one day and already have been made a target."

"And whomever is behind his has been calling you out, not me," Castle adds, now warming to her thinking.

"But why put my name on the latest body, then?" he asks out loud, more to think it out himself than to expect an answer from the ex-detective.

"I don't know," she admits. "But this here –" she says, pointing at the burning building – "this was not a murder attempt. It could have been. Had you not been here, it would have been."

"This is a message then," Castle decides.

"No," she disagrees, "I think it is a warning."

"To who?" he asks.

"To you," she tells him, gazing him hard in the eyes. "Someone is telling you to stay away from me. Someone who was watching for me, waiting for me. Someone who saw us walking together toward the building, and decided to blow it early. Someone here, who could see us."

He opens his mouth to speak, to argue the point . . . but he decides against it for the moment, as the fire truck pulls to a stop. Kate is already in motion, heading toward the large vehicle – rather, to the approaching ambulance that pulls up right behind the fire truck. She moves directly to the paramedic who exits the driver's door.

"We've got one bystander who is going to need stitches," she begins, as the street erupts in a flurry of urgent yet disciplined movement. Unseen by Becket or Castle, a smiling figure in a dark blue SUV pulls away from the curb some fifty yards ahead of them and drives slowly way.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, Forty-five minutes later at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct in New York City**_

.

The sudden avalanche of activity in the bullpen outside her office causes Captain Victoria Gates to raise her head from the paperwork she currently inspects, a frown on her face.

" _Now what?"_ she thinks to herself, as she rises to stand. Her hands instinctively brush her dark brown skirt downward, into place. Everything in its place in her life. Always. She walks to the door leading from her office to the bullpen, keenly aware of the location where all of the noise and bustling seems to have gravitated.

"I hope this is good, Detective Esposito," she begins, gazing at the various people who have gathered around his desk.

"It's Kate . . . er . . . it's Detective . . . ex-detective Beckett," Esposito stutters, drawing a muted chuckle from a plainclothes cop nearby. Esposito offers the younger man a glare that shuts him up.

"New information we were going over regarding her case . . . Holiday, I mean. And now her apartment was just bombed this morning," Detective Kevin Ryan adds. "She just sent Javi and I a text."

The captain looks around at the five or six faces that now stare back at her. She knows these people, and she knows that each of these men and women were close with Kate Beckett. No matter that she left, or how she left, years in the street have forged a bond with many of them that less than a year away isn't going to lessen.

"Is Beckett all right?" she finally asks.

"Yeah, she's fine. Castle, too," Kevin Ryan replies.

"Mr. Castle was with her?" Gates asks. _"I shouldn't be surprised,"_ she thinks to herself. Detached and separated notwithstanding, she knows the history between the two.

"Yes, evidently they had breakfast this morning, according to Beckett," Esposito offers innocently.

"Be that as it may, what is going on _here_?" Gates asks. She's not the least bit interested in the personal affairs of Kate Beckett. Not since the woman left.

"Beckett's home has been bombed," Gates continues. "Unfortunate, yes, but from what I understand about her history, that is hardly something new. And still, not worthy of a half dozen of my best people hovering around a computer," she adds knowingly.

"You're right about that," Kevin offers. "We've been working this Holiday killer for the past few days, as you know . . ."

Gates nods her head, indicating he should continue.

"Quickly, Detective," she cautions.

"Since it seemed fairly obvious that someone has been calling out Kate Beckett, trying to bait her, we have been focusing our efforts on all of her past cases . . . focused on individuals who might have an axe to grind, a grudge to bear, a –"

"Thank you, Detective Ryan, but I think one writer in these halls has been more than enough," Captain Gates interrupts, barely able to contain a roll of her eyes.

"Anyway, Roberts here," Esposito continues, pointing to the plainclothes officer standing next to him, "found something interesting. We checked the prints that were found at each of the sites. Now we haven't found any duplicates. We haven't found any prints that appeared at multiple sites."

"But evidently you have found something," Gates remarks.

"One set of prints," Esposito answers. "Found this morning, outside my apartment. All of the murders occurred at public places. All except one."

"This morning," Gates nods.

"Now, the murder this morning could have occurred somewhere else and the body moved to the door outside my apartment," Esposito begins.

"And that's the most likely scenario," Ryan concludes, rapidly nodding his head. "The victim was a Gary Babin. There is no Gary Babin who lives in Javier's building."

"So murdered in location A, and moved to location B," Gates agrees. "So the prints at your home, Detective?" she asks.

"Long, long before you came on as Captain, sir," Esposito answers. "This goes all the way back to the first year that Castle started working with the team."

"The prints, Detective," Gates interrupts again, this time more firmly.

"Her name was . . . is Theresa Candela. Beckett and Castle caught her when she kidnapped her own child," Esposito responds quickly.

"Adopted child," Kevin Ray adds.

"I read about that case," Gates replies, nodding. "I understand it turned out to be a hoax of sorts. She was looking to divorce her husband and avoid alimony and child support payments. Had her sister involved, if memory serves."

"Yeah," Esposito replies. "Beckett and Castle caught her. She was able to beat the kidnapping rap though."

"I read that also," Gates nods again. "Smart woman. Got herself a female lawyer who stacked the jury with seven women. Sympathetic jury. In the end, she plea-bargained down to a lesser charge and walked free."

"Free with a few years of probation," Ryan adds again.

"Turns out, the down side was her fears proved true," Esposito continues, reminding the growing number of listening ears in the bullpen of the old case, and its consequences.

"Alfred – her husband – divorced her. Back in early 2010. Forced joint custody – plus alimony. He took his share of their savings and now owns an art studio here in the city."

"So, what is the theory? Theresa Candela beats a kidnapping rap, goes on probation, simmers for four or five years plotting revenge against Kate Beckett, and this is the result?" Gates asks, clearly not convinced.

"Yeah, not the best story," Kevin Ryan muses out loud, unknowingly thinking the way their old friend, Richard Castle, would have thought.

"But then again, how would her prints get outside my apartment?" Esposito asks, knowing it is the question on everyone's mind right now. "I mean, she has zero reason to be in my building, much less outside my door. But that's where we found her prints."

"And, the only reason we have her prints on file is because of that case," Kevin Ryan reminds the group. "And you have to ask, is it a stretch that she would wait so long? Five, six years until she goes after Beckett? She comes off five years of probation and immediately, this is what she does? And she is careless enough to leave prints? Outside your door?"

"Doesn't make sense," Esposito agrees. "But do most crimes make sense?"

"Actually they do," Gates cautions them with a reminding finger in the air. "Most crimes are like this, you can look back and see where someone went off kilter. You can follow their mindset of the perpetrator. But you're right, this one doesn't feel right."

"But prints don't lie," Detective Hansen remarks, her first spoken thoughts on the case. The tall blonde joined the precinct last month, one of Gate's recent transfers in from another precinct, as the captain continues to put her imprint on the team.

"Well, reservations or not, we have a suspect," Gates tells the group, bringing the conversation to a close. "Bring her in."

"Well, that's going to be a challenge," Esposito mumbles.

"And why is that?" Gates asks. "Where is she?"

"We don't know," Ryan replies

"She's disappeared," Esposito remarks.

"What do you mean disappeared?" Gates asks, a familiar feeling of dread now creeping into her stomach.

"Three months ago," Esposito answers. "Less than a week after her probation period ended. Her husband reached out to the police, concerned that she hadn't picked up their daughter, Angie, for two consecutive days. Couldn't reach her."

"And she – Theresa – hasn't been seen since then?" Gates asks. "And why am I only hearing about it now?"

"Because he didn't file any charges, didn't fill out any missing-persons report," Kevin replies quickly. "We thought that he would, since he brought it to our attention. But evidently he decided against it."

"And we've been busy in the months since then," Esposito adds.

"Well, she is somewhere in the city, if she was at your apartment this morning," Gates remarks sternly, gazing hard at Esposito. "Find her."

"On it, sir," Esposito concurs, standing quickly and grabbing his shoulder harness. Kevin Ryan moves in concert with him, and the team begins to disperse.

"Hansen, my office please," Gates barks, and turns to return to her office, not waiting for a reply.

Brenda Hansen moves quickly in step with the precinct boss, long accustomed to Gates' clipped and harsh tones. She walks in behind the captain and closes the door.

"Sit, Detective," Gates tells her as she moves behind her desk and drops into her chair.

"Interesting development," she begins.

"Indeed, captain, but not why you want me here," Hansen remarks with a knowing smile.

"True," Gates tells her. "Our friends out there are too close to the fire, no pun intended. Their feelings for our former detective here are still too fresh."

"Can't blame them, sir," Hansen supportively protects her new partners. "Beckett's reputation precedes here . . . and is well deserved."

"I couldn't agree more," Gates agrees. "Which is why I am asking you to run this task, and not them."

"What can I do, sir?"

"I want you to go to Beckett's new book store. Take Barker and Jimmerson from the bomb squad. Have them bring a couple of the dogs, whatever. But I want that establishment searched clean for bombs, or any incendiary devices."

"Yes sir," Hansen replies. "That shouldn't take –"

"And one other thing," Gates interrupts. "I'm placing a call uptown to surveillance. I want you to supervise the installation of a few surveillance devices as well."

"We're bugging her store, sir?" Hansen whispers, surprise in her voice. "Don't we need –"

"Outside surveillance, Detective. Outside surveillance," Gates smiles. "I'm not interested in what Kate Beckett says or does inside her establishment. I'm very interested in who comes and goes from that establishment."

"Ok, Captain," Hansen responds. She knows the Captain well enough to know when she is dismissed. Knowingly, the Captain drops her head and returns to the documents she was reading before being interrupted by the bullpen noise. Hansen makes it to the door before stopping. Her hand is frozen in place, reaching for the knob for a full two count before she retreats and returns to the desk.

"You know me too well, Detective," Gates remarks, smiling without lifting her head from her paperwork.

"What are you not telling me, sir?" Hansen asks. "Why me? And why do we need to supervise the installation of . . ."

The detective lets the words hang in the air as realization hits her. She purses her lips, a new frown on her long, angular face.

"You think someone inside the force . . ."

"I'm keeping all options open, Detective," Gates replies, now gazing up at Hansen. "Kate Beckett made a lot of enemies. And not all of them reside outside the walls of the NYPD. That's just a fact."

"Yes, sir," Hansen remarks sadly. "I understand."

The detective spins crisply and walks to the door, opens it and leaves without a second glance backward, her mind now reeling with the possibilities of someone inside the NYPD having a serious hard-on for Kate Beckett. Hard enough to become a serial murderer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Holiday – Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 **A/N:** Okay, I know, I know. I owe everyone a huge apology for the two-month delay between chapters. All I can say is that it was an interesting month of September, with two CT-scans, a lot of bloodwork and an unexpected surgery procedure. The first week of October was spent here at home, in bed, recovering. Thankfully, our worst fears did not come to pass, and things are moving in a much more positive direction now. I actually was able to get on a plane this past week, so things are getting back to normal. But pbviously, I didn't feel like doing much in the form or reading or writing up to this point, but I have my juices flowing again, now.

I have to admit, I'm going to have to hustle with the chapters now, to get this completed around Christmas, as was the original plan, since this _is_ a Christmas story of sorts. But after last month, and knowing the curveballs life tends to throw at us, I will just say that I am making every effort to get this one home on time.

Thanks to everyone for waiting me out. Without further ado . . .

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 1:47 p.m. At Richard Castle's New York City Loft**_

.

Her lips are soft, just as he remembered – soft, but inquisitive; always searching, always discovering. She nibbles along his lower lip and he moans into the moment as his fingers are now entangled in long, auburn hair. Hair that is sprayed out before him across his pillow. Just as he remembered from what seems like so long ago, now.

He smiles again into the soft kiss as he feels her nails begin that slow, familiar raking along his hips. He tightens and winces against the pain and pleasure, listening to her giggle into his mouth. Her breath is warm and her taste is sweet.

Again, just as he remembered.

His smile, however, turns slightly downward, as a frown forms on his face. True to form, she notices the change right away.

"Castle?" she questions as she wiggles beneath him, pulling him closer, pulling him deeper. He closes his eyes, lost in her words, in her grip.

" _Stop this now,"_ a small voice in the back of his head screams at him. The voice is right, he knows. He should not be doing this. She should not be here. Nothing good can come out of this afternoon delight that has erupted between he and the ex-detective. He knows this. And yet he is helpless, lost in the moment that now stretches into the afternoon.

One minute they were in a cab leaving the hospital after a hasty exit from the still-smoking ruins of her apartment. The next minute he has brought her here – to his loft home – despite initially adamantly telling her this course of action was not an option.

But not only has he brought her back into his home – what used to be _their_ home – but he has brought her back into his bed!

Their bed.

"Damn, Kate," he manages to mumble before the ringing of his cell phone on the nightstand pulls his eyes toward the offending device. He glances over at the nightstand, but feels her fingers along his face pulling him back to her.

"Don't answer it Rick," she almost purrs, gazing into his eyes – promising far more passion with her own. "Don't ruin the moment. Don't leave me. Don't …"

His eyes snap open immediately, his hand fumbling for the still-ringing cell phone. He glances over his shoulder at the other side of his bed – as if to confirm that it is, in fact, empty, as he answers the phone.

"Hello, Mother," he mumbles. "I'm fine."

"You most certainly are _not_ 'fine', Richard," Martha Rodgers begins. "I just heard on the news about Katherine's apartment. When did she get back? When did you get back with her? Why is someone trying to –"

"Mother, my head hurts," Castle interrupts. "One question at a time, please, if you don't –"

"Your head hurts?" Martha interrupts, in turn. "See, you are far from fine. How did this –"

"Mother, please," he cuts her off again. "I'm tired, I'm hurting, and I don't want to play twenty questions. Kate got back yesterday, I believe. No, we are not together. No, I don't know who – or why – someone is after her this time."

" _This_ time," Martha continues, the concern heavy in her voice. "There is always a 'this time' or a 'next time' with her. She is back for what – a day? Two days? And back into the firing line you go again. I am telling you Richard, I cannot do this all over again. I just cannot."

"Mother, no one is asking you to do anything," her son offers, as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, immediately wincing against the pain from pulling the skin along his forehead. He knows he needs to be careful not to pull too hard, so that he doesn't open any of the stitches atop his forehead.

"Listen, Mother, I'm fine. But I was sleeping. I will call you in a bit, okay? I promise."

He doesn't wait for her reply, clicking off the conversation. He knows he will hear about that, and she will be right. He shouldn't take this out on her. But hey, right now he is tired, his head hurts, and his heart isn't too far behind, evidently, given the nature of his dreams.

"She's right, though," he reminds himself out loud. He can't do this again. And he certainly can't put his family through this again. He wonders where such a vivid dream came from, but deep down he knows. He frowns, now fully aware that he is far from over the detective, yet at the same time just as aware of the very real dangers that follow her every step.

"Dammit, Kate," he mumbles to himself as he gently lowers his head back to his pillow, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his forehead. A quick cab ride to the hospital, a few quick stitches and a test for concussion, and he has been back at his loft – alone – for the past hour.

He drifts back to sleep, his mind pulling forward the image of a red-headed bartender as he desperately attempts to push the images of a certain ex-federal agent and NYPD detective into the background.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 2:13 p.m. At a Hotel in New York City**_

.

"Your room key, Ms. Kabaeva," the hotel attendant behind the check-in desk smiles. "I hope you enjoy your stay here at the Marriott Times Square."

Kate Beckett smiles broadly in return, glancing down at her key and noting that she is on the 34th floor. Her mannerisms have her falling back on her recent short – but intense – training in Europe. Yes, she could have picked a more non-descript and less public hotel. But hiding in plain sight was one of the themes stressed heavily during her time there. And fortunately, Elena Markov has given the ex-federal agent a number of aliases. Each of them Russian, these aliases make good usage of Kate's fluency with the Russian language. Combine that with her natural European looks and bone structure, and she pulls off the role of a wealthy Eastern European tourist with very little effort.

"Spaseeba," she thanks the clerk in Russian, then easily switches back to English with a noticeable Russian accent. "Thank you, I am certain I will enjoy myself."

She turns quickly and walks confidently through the lobby and around the glass structure toward the darkened elevator area. She inserts her key in the kiosk and checks the numbers above each of the elevators, waiting for her floor to match with that of an elevator car.

She drops her key into her small purse, and gazes at the burner phone that lies there. Another gift from her Russian mentor. She smiles as she remembers the conversation with Castle as they left the hospital, when she gave the novelist a burner phone to use to communicate with her.

" _How cool," she remembers him saying with that boyish excitement. "You know that I've always wanted one of these."_

" _Yes, Castle, you've made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion," she had chuckled at the time._

She subconsciously touches the wig atop her head, playing with a strand of hair alongside her ear. The wig of short, cropped blonde hair is a perfect match with the blue eye lens that complete her disguise. Hiding in plain sight, indeed.

After leaving the hospital, she had gone down into the subway instead of taking a taxi. If she was being tailed, she decided it would be far easier to lose someone in the subway system rather than a cab. She had ridden the subway for the past hour, getting off and transferring to different trains – all while underground and never coming back up to street level – until she felt enough time – and transfers – had transpired.

The ding and matching number from an elevator at the far left end of the bank brings her back to the present, as she walks quickly toward the elevator car and, once inside, presses the button associated with the 34th floor.

She is accompanied for the ride up the tower by a couple of businessmen, who enter the elevator car with her. Both men are preoccupied with their own conversation – it is clear that the men know each other. Still, both manage to take notice of the beautiful woman riding alone. The larger gentleman finally clears his throat, ready to make an attempt at conversation when the car arrives at the 34th floor, opening the door and affording Kate a welcome retreat. The last thing she is in the mood for at this point is some mindless banter with traveling businessmen.

She feels the eyes boring into the back of her head as she departs, quickly putting the disappointed men out of her mind as she glances at the small signage on the wall indicating which direction she should take, in order to get to her room.

A minute later, she is in her room, kicking off the short-heeled shoes and sitting on the corner of the bed. She immediately takes out her burner phone, and calls Richard Castle's matching burner phone by memory.

The phone rings three times before a groggy Richard Castle answers.

"Hello Kate," he answers. She can't tell if it is sleepiness or painkiller-induced grogginess that she hears from the other end.

"Are you all right, Castle?" she asks.

"Yeah," he replies. "Just a little out of it. But I'm good. What's up?"

"Nothing in particular," she tells him, now laying back across the front of the bed herself. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm all checked in."

"Where are you?" he asks.

"For now, Castle, let's let that stay a secret," she tells him. "We don't need . . ."

The words catch in her mouth, as she realizes once again she is being secretive with this man – and the realization stings her. Secrets are what started this lengthy separation in the first place. She and her damn secrets.

"I'm at the Marriott in Times Square, Rick," she corrects herself, and notices her change has caught his attention as well.

"I . . . uh . . . well, thanks Kate," he finally spits out. "For a moment there, I didn't think you were going to share where you are."

"For a moment, you were right," she admits. "I wasn't. But that's what has gotten us to this point, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I can't argue with that," he offers, now fully awake – at least as awake as the medication will allow. He rises quickly to a sitting position, and he immediately – and painfully – regrets the sudden motion, as it pounds mercilessly at his forehead. He reaches instinctively for the glass of water he has left on the nightstand and takes a couple of long gulps of the cool liquid. It's too soon for another pill.

"So, who are you today?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. She has confided in him earlier, telling him that she has a number of aliases available to her, thanks to Elena . . . another topic that the author has found 'too cool for words.'

"Svetlana Kabaeva," she replies, allowing her accent to seep in. She knows – from intimate memories – how much he loves her accent, and the effect it has on him. Unfair, perhaps, but these are unfair times. She can almost see the smile on his face as he begins speaking again.

"Sounds like a very alluring woman from Europe," he remarks.

"You have no idea," she replies, playing along.

"So now that you are undercover, I'm guessing I won't see you for awhile," he continues. She can't tell whether there is disappointment in his voice or not.

"For the time being, no," she answers – and unlike him – the disappointment in her voice is easy to hear. "Whoever is after me will definitely be keeping tabs on you," she continues. "So me hanging out with you defeats the whole purpose of this little incognito period."

"Yeah, you're right about that," he agrees. "Still, I don't like the idea. It's almost like you're not even here all over again," he continues, immediately wondering where those words have come from.

"This allows me to move freely, Castle," she reminds him, "Out in the open, investigating. Trust me, I have many disguises, and they are good enough that I could be standing next to you and you wouldn't recognize me."

"That I doubt," he chuckles. "We will just have to put that to the test."

"Ooh, a challenge," she chuckles in return. "I like it."

There is an awkward silence for another few seconds before he speaks again.

"So, you're down in Times Square," he remarks. "So, what's next?"

"Well, as you know, I have a couple of friends on the force who are going to pass on information from the investigation –"

"Which one?" he asks, interrupting. "Your apartment explosion, or all of the holiday killings?"

"Both," she answers quickly. "Javi and Kevin are going to keep me in the loop. They don't know it yet. I don't want them calling my regular phone. So I need to give them this number, along with a different phone."

"You think someone on the inside is behind this?" he asks, incredulous.

"No, I really don't think so," she admits, "but I do believe that they will be watched, that someone on the inside will be keeping close tabs on them."

"Why?"

"To keep tabs on me," she answers, and he nods in agreement on the other end.

"How's your head, Rick?" she asks, changing the subject.

"Feels like I just got stitches," he remarks, sounding again – intentionally – like the little boy she has come to love and ridicule.

"You big baby," she teases.

"Always," he agrees as he signs off, hanging up. Neither is aware of the broad smiles that a single word has brought the other.

.

 _ **Now Wednesday Evening, December 18, 2013, 6:30 p.m. Somewhere in New York City**_

.

Theresa Candela sits in the hotel room watching the latest news on CNN. She fidgets in her seat next to the window, her feet propped up on the ottoman. Without thinking, she idly switches channels, now simply surfing to keep busy. It's been a hectic few weeks. She puts the remote control down and picks up her phone, immediately clicking on the photo section, where images of her young daughter pop up. She smiles for a moment, but the moment is fleeting as she pushes any thoughts out of her head. She committed to this project long ago, with full knowledge of what it may cost her.

"I lost you long ago, little one," she says aloud of her adopted child. Those thoughts are interrupted by the chirping on her cell phone. She gazes at the text message she has been waiting for, and nods her head with a smile. She quickly switches applications on her phone and logs into her bank account, checking her balance. Her smile broadens as she sees the newly deposited $50,000 in her bank account.

"Good, good," she says aloud as she picks herself up from the chair, tossing her phone to the bed and walks to the closet. She changes into a pair of blue jeans and a dark brown sweater. Walking to the bed, she sits on the end of the bed and begins to pull up a pair of heavy brown boots with a two-inch heel that will add a couple of inches to her small frame to complete the ensemble. She then heads to the bathroom, grabbing the wig on the way.

Staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror above the small sink, she places the red wig atop her head, adjusting it into place. The red hair falls below her shoulders, and she uses a brush, ensuring the look is as natural as possible. Finally satisfied, she goes back to the bed, and picks up her phone. Checking the address one last time, a look of determination fills her eyes as she grabs the room key and heads out the door.

She makes her way downstairs, casually walking through the lobby, knowing no one will recognize her. A minute later, she is outside hailing a cab. A slight snowfall is now dusting the streets, and she intentionally blows her breath out of her mouth, content to watch the smoke leave her lips. A cab quickly pulls up alongside her at the curb. She quickly climbs into the back seat, closing the door behind her and leaning back into the warmth of the cab.

"880 River Avenue in the Bronx," she tells the cabdriver.

"The Dugout, sure thing lady," the older man replies, clicking a few buttons on the apparatus on his dash, smiling at the nice fare he knows is coming.


	10. Chapter 10

**Holiday – Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 7:39 p.m. At The Dugout bar across from Yankee Stadium**_

.

"Here you go," Theresa Candela tells the cab driver as he pulls up to the curb at the bar on River Street.  
"Keep the change."

"Thanks, lady," the obviously happy man replies, glancing down at the large bills being placed into his hand. "Need a receipt?"

"No thank you," she replies, intentionally placing a bit of a British accent into her dialect. He will remember a red-headed brit if ever questioned about a passenger he dropped off.

She walks from the cab, and cannot help but glance at the large baseball stadium looming across the way. Her breath tells her how cold the night is.

"Perfect weather for a killing," she thinks to herself as she shakes the stadium out of her mind and focuses on the task at hand. She stalls for just a second at the door to the bar, steeling herself with a deep breath, and walks through the cold smoke that escapes her lips, entering the establishment. She glances around quickly, and finds her mark. She resists the smile that threatens to canvas her face and makes her way directly to the women's restroom.

She enters the restroom and smiles, realizing there is no one inside to see her. Anyone in here right now is inside a stall, and won't be a witness to anything. She enters a separate stall at the end, and quickly gets to work. She removes the red wig, allowing her dark hair to fall naturally. She fluffs it with her fingers. She will finish the work in front of the mirror.

Next, she sits on the toilet commode, with the cover top down. She pulls out flat, ankle-high boots with no discernible heel from her large over-sized bag, and removes the taller, heeled boots from her feet. Quickly folding the larger boots, she places them into her bag, joining the discarded wig. She takes her time now, slowing down – and slowing her breathing as she takes longer, deeper breaths – as she puts the ankle boots on.

Taking one more breath, and silently giving thanks that she hasn't heard anyone enter – or leave – the restroom, she opens the stall door and walks to the large mirror on the wall above the water sinks.

"You first," she whispers to the blue-green contact lens as she pops it out of her left eye. She then follows suit with the companion lens from her right eye. She carefully places both lenses in their liquid containers. To finish the look – her normal look – she takes a hairbrush out and brushes out her hair, her dark eyes smiling into the mirror. She reaches down to take out a small bottle of perfume and gives it a couple of short, quick squeezes.

"Idiot always liked this one," she mutters softly, putting the perfume back into the bag. Stepping back to admire her work, she smiles one last time, satisfied that she looks exactly as she needs to look.

Like Theresa Candela.

Walking out of the restroom, she walks directly to the table where Alfred Candela, her ex-husband, sits waiting. She is three or four steps away when he takes his eyes away from the television screens – and the Knicks game that is just starting – and smiles broadly.

"Wow," he begins, immediately getting a whiff of the perfume she traps him with. "You look . . . you look great Theresa," he continues. She can see he is cautious, though, and she cannot blame him. Still, she will pull him in. Once he entered this bar, he was in her web. She had texted him last night, setting up this meeting. She had told him that she has gone away on business, and it afforded her time to think.

About her family. About them.

"Thanks," she replies. "And thanks for agreeing to meet me. It's been a long time since we tried . . . well, since _I_ tried to have a civil conversation."

"Is that what this is?" he asks, so many questions in his mind. He stands, pulling a chair out for her.

"Hopefully more," she promises with a smile. "But it's a start, right Candy?"

He can't help but smile at the intimate nickname she uses. He hasn't heard this term in years – and that includes the last year or two of their marriage. She smiles inwardly, knowing she is just pulling him closer.

He nods in agreement, as he sits down at the same time she does.

"Are you still drinking mojitos?" he asks.

"Of course," she answers, making sure she keeps eye-contact with her ex-husband. She finds it curious that he remembers. In fact, she finds the entire evening curious. It was a long-shot in her mind that he would even want to meet. She has not been kind to this man. That he would still harbor positive feelings toward her, that he would even want something with her . . . it almost makes her reconsider tonight.

Almost.

All it takes for her is to think of Angela, to think of what married life was like to this man, and the die is cast. She's in this for the long-run. Which, if all goes to plan, won't be that long.

Alfred flags a waitress over, and places their drink order. A mojito for her and a glass of vodka and cranberry juice for himself.

"So," he begins, "where in the world have you been for three months, Theresa? I mean, I know you texted me after a couple of weeks, and told me you were away on business, but –"

"I was out of country, setting up a new direction for my life," she interrupts. "I have worked hard my entire life – our entire marriage – and an opportunity came my way. I figured you have grown . . . changed," she lies.

"I knew I could leave Angie with you for a few months," she tells him, proud of herself for such a great acting job. "I'm just grateful you agreed to meet."

She glances at the paint residue underneath his fingernails, and forces herself not to react.

" _He hasn't changed at all,"_ she reminds herself. She has gone to many steps to make sure she looks more than presentable for this faux reunion . . . but he shows up in nice jeans and a button-up shirt – on the surface, it is progress. But one glance at his nails, and a strong breath pulls in his stale body odor. She wants to vomit. Oh how she hates this man who has all but taken her daughter.

No, he hasn't changed at all. She has watched from afar and knows that the nanny he hired once they divorced has been spending most of the time with their daughter, while he spends his time in his art studio – painting and watching television. She knew bringing him here – to a sports bar across from the stadium he loves so much – would put him at ease.

For the next half hour, she is more than civil. She flirts a tiny bit, but shows the quiet strength she knows attracted him in the first place. They talk about Angela, they talk about his studio, they talk about the new opportunity presented to her, and she makes certain that he orders a second drink, and then a third. As he downs the last of the third drink, throwing his head back as he throws down the pinkish liquid, she glances at her watch. Time to end this.

"Still drinking a lot," she offers, without a smile. The switch is harsh, and not lost on the artist.

"Geesh, Theresa," he remarks. "I thought we were trying a new leaf here, get to know each other again."

"Some things, evidently, don't change," she tells him, offering a bit of disappointment in her voice and fire in her eyes. It's not hard, because it is no longer an act.

"Evidently not," he replies with equal disappointment.

"I wonder what else hasn't changed," she asks, intentionally allowing her voice to rise in volume. All part of the plan.

"Lower your voice, Theresa," he hisses angrily, knowing full well what her temper is capable of. "Please don't make a scene!"

"Don't make a scene?!" she now yells questioningly. "You can't be serious!" she continues, her voice raised, as she quickly stands. It is important that they be seen. That she be seen. That she be identified.

As she hopes, he wants to disappear. And the easiest way to disappear is to take this increasingly-awkward moment as an opportunity to relieve his now-full bladder.

"I need some air," he tells her, standing. "I will be right back."

He leaves her standing at their table as he makes his way to the men's restroom. She glances around quickly, feigning embarrassment, while she catches the eye of two larger men who stand at the bar. Without hesitation, the first man walks toward the restroom. Within seconds, the second man, wearing an old Patrick Ewing jersey top, follows.

She puts on a sad face, lifting fingers to her eyes, making sure that those closest to their table see her imaginary grief.

"Screw this," she says aloud, loud enough for surrounding tables to hear. She picks up her purse and pulls out a fifty dollar bill, and drops it on the table. Without a backward glance, she heads to the front door, pulling out her cell phone to call for a cab.

Closing the door behind her, she stops for a couple of seconds, wrapping her coat around her against the winter cold.

"Goodbye Alfred," she whispers to the wind. She begins walking, whistling a Latin tune.

.

 _ **Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 11:27 p.m. At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City**_

.

Richard Castle lies in his large, over-sized bed, the covers pulled up just under his chin. The throbbing in his head has subsided somewhat, thanks to the painkillers. The local news is on. The sports report has just finished dissecting another early-season Knicks loss, and the lead co-anchors will be back on in a minute with the final story of the night.

"At least there hasn't been another Holiday killing," he tells the universe at large, out loud. He takes a sip of water – wishing it were something much stronger, but smart enough not to mix the alcohol he craves with the painkillers he has been taking.

He glances at his phone, at the incoming text message. He knows, from the ring tone, who this note is from, and he cannot suppress the small smile that appears with her name.

" _Hey Rick – still awake?"_

He types his response quickly.

" _Hey Eliza. Barely. Watching the news."_

He waits for a few seconds for the reply he knows is coming. He glances at the commercial on television that exhorts the values of a local plumbing company who is sponsoring the final segment. His phone chimes again.

" _Nothing good on the news. You know that. How's your head?"_

He quickly types a reply as the final news segment begins.

" _You're right about that. And I'm fine. I told you already."_

In truth he is far from fine. But he has learned – and decided – long ago that showing weakness to this woman – or her father – is not the best road taken. Rescuing the mobster's daughter from an exploding building has built a ton of goodwill . . . goodwill that he doesn't want a different explosion to dampen.

" _You tell me a lot of things, Mr. Writer."_

He smiles at her pet name for him, recalling a similar name given to him years earlier by a different set of friends. But his attention is split now, as the final news segment catches his attention as the male anchor begins speaking.

" _The murdered body of a local New York artist was found this evening in the men's restroom stall in the last hour. A patron of the Dugout restaurant and bar on River Street noticed blood seeping from the stall next to him."_

The scene switches from the two anchors to an in-the-field reporter at the local establishment bar in question.

" _That's right, John – and the owner of this well-known sports establishment tells us that the victim was found by a patron who he was personally serving at the bar."_

The camera pans out as a large man wearing a Patrick Ewing Knicks jersey steps into the camera's view.

" _Mr. Sungress, I understand you found the victim about an hour ago – is that correct?"_

" _That's correct,"_ Jerry Sungress replies. _"My friend and I were spending the evening here watching the game, and I've had to make a few trips to the men's room to . . . you know . . . relieve myself,"_ he snickers.

" _I went into the stall and that's when I noticed blood coming from underneath, from the other stall next to me. I hollered at the fella there, but no one responded. So I finished my business, if you know what I mean, and I stepped out and banged on the door. I came out and got the bartender over there, and he opened the door and . . . well, the poor guy was pretty dead as you know."_

The scene switches back to the anchors in the studio, with the in-the-field reporter still in a small box in the background behind them.

" _Ramona, is there any evidence of this that points to another Holiday killing?"_ , the anchor asks.

" _No, John, at this time the police are not calling this another Holiday murder. The victim – Alfred Candela – was a local artist, and there was no note left, no names or messages carved in his body. He was wearing jeans and a Yankees jersey. This seems to be just another tragic murder in our city. That's how the police are treating this."_

The victim's name is what draws the first gasp from the lips of Richard Castle. He knows this man – and this man's wife. Both were key players in one of the earliest cases that he worked on with the 12th Precinct, back in the day. The irony is not lost on him.

Neither is the jersey.

He glances down at his phone, at the messages from Eliza that have come in that he has not yet read, while watching the news segment. Ignoring the messages, he quickly pulls up a contact and hits the CALL button. He is rewarded after three rings.

"This better be good, Castle. I have an early morning," a very tired Detective Javier Esposito tells him.

"Javi, just trust me on this," Castle begins. "Call your friends on the force. Alfred Candela was murdered tonight. He –"

"I know Castle," Esposito interrupts. "We all know. We have been in contact with –"

"Javi, it's Holiday," Castle cuts him off.

"No, it's not, Castle," Esposito argues, now getting a bit irritated. He was hoping for an early night, and when the murder from the Dugout was called in, everyone was on edge, thinking it was another Holiday killing. Needless to say, despite the death, they were relieved that it wasn't deemed a Holiday murder. The force has been under a lot of pressure to find this madman. Getting a day away from Holiday is a welcome respite.

"I admit it's weird, because we know that guy," Esposito continues. "And we have to find his wife, because by all witness accounts, he was with her tonight when –"

"Javi!" Castle bellows, quickly grabbing his forehead which reminds him that raising his voice and emotions is not a good idea right now.

"Trust me – just find out one thing for me. Make the calls, but find out one thing. Alfred was wearing a Yankees jersey. Find out which one, and call me back."

With that, Castle hangs up, leaving an agitated and confused Detective Esposito on the other end. They don't know it, but this is a Holiday victim. They don't see it. But Castle does. It's just the writer in him. Once he knew that the killer was following the Christmas song, the author had been considering possibilities – how would the killer strike on Day 6. He has his range of suspicions, thanks to his very vivid writer's imagination.

Another ping from his phone interrupts his off-the-track train of thought.

" _Are you still with me, Rick?"_

He glances above at three other messages from Eliza that he has not responded to. He quickly apologizes, telling her he went to the bathroom. Immediately as he types his excuse, he wonders aloud why he is lying to this woman. Over something so simple. They continue their exchange for a couple of minutes before he signs off, telling her he is tired.

"At least that's the truth," he says aloud, still staring at the television. The news is off, and a late-night host is in the middle of his opening monologue. Minutes later, his phone rings again.

"Yes, Javi," he replies.

"Number 54, Castle," Esposito tells his friend. "Now what is the all the fuss about wanting to know –"

"It's Holiday, Javier," Castle offers, is voice barely a whisper.

"Castle, they checked the body," Esposito reminds him. "There was no writing, no carving, no –"

"Number 54 is Rick Gossage, Javi," Castle interrupts. "Relief pitcher extraordinaire. And do you remember what his nickname was?"

The call is quiet for a few seconds. Castle actually smirks, counting off the numbers in his head while his friend figures it out.

" _One, Two, Three –"_

"Oh shit!" he hears his detective friend mutter on the other end.

"Yeah, my friend, oh shit is right," Castle agrees. "Number 54 was Goose Gossage. And the next stanza in the song pertains to six geese a-laying."

"And we just had a victim found laying in a restroom stall, wearing Goose Gossage's jersey," Esposito finishes their thought.

"This is Holiday," Castle tells his friend, with conviction. "And he's changing up his M.O."

.

A/N: I hope everyone had a great Halloween, and enjoys the Christmas and Holiday season that is quickly coming upon us. The next chapter should be up in a week or so. They will be coming more frequently now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Holiday – Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 6:42 a.m. Somewhere in New York City**_

.

It is the third ring on her cell phone that finally brings the tall Russian beauty out of the shower. It is going to be a busy day for her today, she knows, and so this early-morning moment that she has – alone with just her thoughts and the hot water from the hotel shower – is all she is going to get today. She frowns at the ceiling in the shower stall against the interrupting device.

She almost lets the phone continue to ring. But knowing who is calling, and knowing he won't leave a voice message, she sighs with an air of disappointment as she reaches out of the stall for the phone that sits on the commode next to the stall. She doesn't bother to dry the side of her face, but instead simply puts the device next to her wet ear.

"And good morning to you," she answers, her tone non-committal.

"Am I bothering you?" Senator William Bracken asks, as he pops another bite of warm, buttered toast into his mouth. He holds a newspaper in his hand, browsing through the front section as is his morning ritual.

"Not at all. You simply caught me getting out of the shower," she offers, smiling to herself. She knows how this imagery will play with him. It is but another of her tools that she often uses to her advantage. Especially with this man. The few seconds of silence he gives her afterward are a simple confirmation of this fact, before he speaks again.

"So, what have you found?" he asks, putting the image of a naked Elena Markov out of his mind. It's an image he has never seen, and suspects never will. Still . . .

"Another killing last night," Elena begins. "The police suspect a certain Theresa Candela. They are treating it like a husband-wife quarrel that got out of hand."

"You don't sound too convinced," he tells her, chewing another bite of toast. His mind is trying to pull up anything, a mental picture, an article – anything on one Theresa Candela. Something niggles at the back of his head, as the name is vaguely familiar.

"I am not. It is much too pact. It is too clean," she replies, turning off the water and stepping fully out of the shower. The sudden cool air on her body brings goose bumps to the surface.

"How so?"

"They suspect the wife because her fingerprints were found at a previous site of the murders,  
she continues.

"That is convenient," he remarks.

"Too convenient," she agrees, as the first towel is wrapped around her wet hair, as she bends over in front of the mirror, placing the phone in speaker mode and putting it on the sink counter. "Fingerprints at a murder site, followed by a second murder. It is too sloppy. Sloppy things bother me. Most people who plan something like this will not make such a simple mistake."

"Perhaps she is an exception," he tells her.

"Perhaps," she agrees once again. "She certainly has motive. Their marriage did not end well. Kidnapping, custody, alimony – nasty stuff, according to what I have read."

"Okay, so what is bothering you?" he asks.

"What always bothers me," she replies. "Money. Too much of it. $200,000 into her bank account in the past month. $50,000 in the last couple of days. A trail of money. Fingerprints at the site. It is too clean."

"Then someone is setting her up?" he questions aloud.

"No, she is a part of whatever is happening," Elena answers, retrieving her phone again, and taking the call off speaker. Hotel walls are thin, and perhaps this will be a conversation that should not be heard. Holding the phone against her neck that is now bent at an odd angle, she continues to dry off. "It is almost as if someone wants it to _look_ like she is being set up."

"That makes no sense," the Senator remarks, the wheels in his mind turning. "So the police are treating this like a domestic dispute."

"Yes."

"But you aren't," he adds.

"No."

"Because?" he questions.

"Because there is a money trail left behind. A money trail the police do not yet see."

"But you do," he questions.

"Of course."

"And how is it that you know this already, and the police do not?" he continues.

"Seriously?" she asks, eyebrows raised. She makes it her business to uncover such things. Along with her physical prowess, it is a part of her makeup. Her strength.

"Because there are fingerprints left behind," she continues. "And because this woman, this Candela woman, has history with your ex-detective."

"Do tell," Bracken comments, now putting the newspaper down, and subconsciously touching his earpiece.

"One of her earlier cases, along with the writer. They foiled a faux-kidnapping-"

"Her own child," Bracken interrupts, now remembering the case.

"Yes, I am surprised it took you so long to remember," Elena comments. "One would think this particular adversary's history would be well known to you."

"It's early in the morning," he cautions. "My mind is still sharp enough."

"I am certain that it is," she commends him. She knows that idle praise, a small brush of his ego goes far with this man. She wonders, not for the first time, why a man of such power would require such affirmation.

"So, if this woman is behind bringing the detective back, if she is the one doing the killings – I agree there is linkage," he remarks. Standing, he puts the newspaper down and walks to the kitchen window, staring outside at the enclosed back yard. He glances back toward the stairs. Elizabeth continues to sleep.

"But why would she want Beckett back in the picture? Why bring her back into the city?"

"Perhaps to take care of her," Elena replies. "I must assume you did not hear – I am surprised. Your sources are failing you, William," she continues. She doesn't let him interrupt as she presses on.

"There was an attempt on the ex-detective's life yesterday," she tells him, as she dries her legs off with the now damp second towel.

"Blew her apartment building up," she continues.

His silence is worth the dark smile that crosses Markov's face, knowing she is giving him information he did not have. Information, that considering his obsession with the detective, someone in the city should have alerted him to before now.

"You don't say," he finally manages.

"I do say," she laughs. "Almost took out her and her writer friend, ex-whatever they are now."

"She was with Castle?" he asks, clearly intrigued with this latest news.

"She was, indeed," Elena answers. "I understand he actually walked away with minor injuries."

The line is silent for a moment as she allows him to process this information, putting pieces together. She takes advantage of the respite, quickly drying the rest of her body off as she mentally counts off numbers before she knows he will speak again. She knows the politician well.

"So a past case, someone she has arrested from her past, uses killings to call her out, to bring her back to town . . . and tries to kill her by blowing her building," he speaks out loud.

"And what is wrong with this picture, William?" Elena asks. His continued silence tells her he has not yet pieced it together, and she is running out of patience. And time. She finishes the puzzle for him.

"One, Kate Beckett is back in town for one day – gets an apartment – and that apartment explodes the next day," Elena begins.

"Two, a killer leaves fingerprints at a murder site, then commits a second murder the next night – and this time the murder victim is her husband," she continues.

"Three, the suspected killer has a money trail of deposits, suggesting a payoff of some sort. And four, the police see this as a domestic violence case, but my source inside the police department tells me that there is evidence that may link this killing to the others, but this is being kept quiet at this time."

"For what purpose?" he asks.

"That is unclear," she answers. "Something I hope to discover today. But you are asking the wrong question, William."

He is quiet for a moment, then loses his patience. Damn her and her intellectual puzzles.

"Elena," he presses, squeezing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Please just –"

"Kate Beckett gets back one day, and her apartment – a brand new apartment – explodes the next day," she repeats.

His continued silence dismays her. She repeats herself a third time.

"The _next day_ , William!"

"How did our killer know she was back in town after only one day?" it finally dawns on him.

" _Yes_ , William, how?" she repeats his question. "And how did our killer find her new apartment building and place an explosive device inside . . . in one day?"

"Hmmm . . . I . . ."

"And why are the police suddenly keeping the fact that this is another serial killing quiet?" Elena asks, knowing that he is finally putting the pieces together.

"It appears there is someone on the inside of the police force that is feeding our killer information," he exhales, surprised himself at this revelation.

"Correct, again, William," Elena agrees, having already decided this for herself before placing this phone call.

"Someone inside the NYPD has it out for the ex-detective. The question is simple. Is this person, or persons, the mastermind behind the killings, or simply an informant."

"That's a tall leap, my friend," Bracken argues out loud. "Someone inside the police force with a vendetta worth killing for?"

"But police officers normally do not kill for revenge," Elena remarks.

"No," he agrees. "Cops kill for money."

"And what do we have here, William?" she continues.

"A money trail," he answers.

"A money trail that is not yet visible, William," she adds.

"The police are not aware of this? Her deposits?" he asks.

"Not yet."

"Then how did you find out?" he asks.

Her laughter – the sound of ice clinking along the edges of a glass tumbler – frightens the Senator, not for the first time. He is thankful that he is not on the wrong side of this woman.

"It is my business to learn such things long before anyone else," she reminds him. "I will call you when I know more. For now, however, I am curious as to why your normally timely sources of information are failing you."

With that, she hangs the phone call up, knowing she has given him far more to chew on at this early morning hour than he should deal with. But keeping the powerful Senator off center is always part of the game. He considers himself a chess master, moving pieces around his political board. In truth, unbeknownst to him, he is simply one of her many pieces that she plays without their knowledge.

"That is the difference between you and I, William," she says out loud to no one. "People know they are but a piece to you to play. They have no idea they are the same for me."

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 7:15 a.m. At the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct in New York City**_

.

"Let me get this straight," "Captain Victoria Gates jeers with barely contained derision through clinched teeth. It is not an act, her anger is very real this morning. She has worked hard over the past year to push the precinct past the unwanted (at least on her part) interference from one popular novelist. To now understand that he – not her team – is the one behind uncovering this latest murder does not sit well with the ex-Internal Affairs officer.

"A man gets murdered, and he is another in the line of Holiday killings," she begins, "but no one on the vaunted New York police force figured this out?"

Her office – filled to standing room only with a host of detectives and officers – is quiet, save the seething commentary being unleashed by the captain. Detectives Hansen, Esposito, and Ryan simply shoegaze for the moment, each knowing from experience that she is asking questions that do not expect an answer. They will not make the mistake of giving her one.

Unfortunately, young officer Danny Guiterriez is not as smart as his more experienced peers.

"There were not any of the typical clues that Holiday has left in the past, sir," the younger man offers, not seeing the roll of the eyes Hansen gives him. Esposito barely stifles a smirk, with a subtle shake of his head.

"No body mutilation, nothing that would lend itself to –"

"The jersey, Officer Guiterriez? The jersey of one of this city's best known ballplayers from a storied past – and one that offers the signature story line in the Christmas song he taunts us with? No one caught that? On the entire force?"

"That is true, sir, but it's a good thing – isn't it – that Mr. Castle offered up his theory last night to Detective Esposito? Right? I mean, we want to –"

"Stop talking Danny," Esposito hisses under his breath, trying to spare the younger man the rising ire of their captain.

"Sir," Detective Brenda Hansen interjects, attempting to help her partners, "regardless of how we came about the information, the important thing is that we know this is a continuation of the serial killings, and we have a bonafide suspect with a potential motive."

"Detective," Gates corrects, "We have a suspect with a motive for the most recent killing – yes. The husband of Theresa Candela being murdered – with enough witnesses describing his ex-wife at the bar having drinks with him before an argument ensued – is suspicious to say the least. But the same people who place her at the bar also are insistent that she left the bar once he stepped away. So it is highly unlikely that she is our killer."

"Unless she is working with someone we aren't aware of yet, sir," Detective Kevin Ryan adds. "Remember, her prints were at the previous murder site, outside Javier's home."

"And she certainly would have motive for wanting ill will towards Kate Beckett," Hansen adds.

"We have a motive for wanting Kate, we have a motive for wanting – how did you say it, ill will – towards her ex-husband, and we have evidence that places her at the last two murders," Javier Esposito reminds the captain. "It may not line up with your smell test, or mine for that matter. But evidence doesn't lie . . ."

"Nor should it be ignored," Kevin Ryan adds. Danny Guiterriez, having wised up, stays silent.

"And your reservations aside, sir," Hansen offers, now offering a direct gaze at her boss, "given the fact that people are dying, I think it might be prudent to solicit the assistance of the two people who seem most impacted by all of this."

"You're suggesting bringing Beckett and Castle back here . . . into my precinct . . ."

Gates leaves the question hanging in the morning stillness that suddenly claims her office. It is Esposito that breaks the temporary silence.

"I think Detective Hansen has a point, sir," he offers to the room at large. "If this is Candela, then having both of them here – with their knowledge of her and the previous case – can't do anything but help."

"I don't like it," Gates argues. "We are the New York Police Department, with all of the resources that entails at our disposal –"

"And we have six dead bodies, Captain, and a press corps that is getting hungrier with every new body that drops," Detective Kevin Ryan interrupts. "With all due respect – we all know that stopping this killer is our top priority, and if that means bringing in outside resources, well it won't be the first or last time that happens on any police force, this one included."

It is an unexpected stroke of courageous risk on the part of the detective, one that takes Captain Victoria Gates by surprise. She nods her head in reluctant agreement as she issues the order.

"Get in touch with them both," she tells the team, now sitting in her chair behind her desk. It is a dismissal that all are familiar with.

"I want them in here before the morning is over. Let's find out what they know."

"Yes, sir," a choir of officers and detective reply in unison as bodies begin leaving the office. All save one, that is.

"Close the door, Detective," Gates instructs Hansen, who has hung back.

Meanwhile, Detectives Ryan and Esposito walk quietly to their bullpen area, offering silent looks to each other. Esposito motions them toward the stairwell. The men enter the exit stairwell, while Esposito places his forefinger to his lips, indicating that it is still not safe to speak. The two head down the stairs and exit into the lobby area and head directly to the exit.

Once outside, Kevin Ryan motions for a cab. Seconds later, the two men are in the back seat of the taxi car that moves away from the curb. Esposito immediately pulls his phone out from the front of pocket on his jacket.

"Did you get all of that, Beckett?" he asks his friend.

"Yes, I did, Javi," Kate Beckett replies. "Thanks for letting me sit in, so to speak. I know you took a huge risk for me."

"The bigger risk is more killings," Kevin Ryan whispers, glancing ahead at the cabbie who is separated by a glass window. Satisfied that their conversation is not being listened to, he continues.

"I'm surprised she ok'd the idea of you and Castle joining the investigation," Ryan begins.

"Me, too," Esposito agrees. "I was just hoping to get out of there without her noticing my phone in my front pocket."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you or the captain, but I won't be there this morning," Kate tells the duo. "Right now, the best – and safest – option for me is to stay in the shadows. If I go waltzing into the precinct, then I am a sitting duck for whoever is out there. And that puts Castle into the crosshairs as well."

"I figured you might not want to come in," Esposito remarks.

"But that doesn't mean Castle can't," Kate tells them, drawing a raised eyebrow from both detectives.

"Someone is after me," Kate continues. "Let them keep looking. But Castle, I think, is in the clear, as long as he isn't with me. Plus, this allows all of us to stay in contact with each other, while each conducting our own investigation."

"So, what's the plan?" Kevin Ryan asks. "We tell Gates we couldn't get you, but were able to get a hold of Castle?"

"Absolutely," the ex-detective tells her friends. "My apartment was attacked. I've gone underground. You don't know where I am – all of which is true."

"True," Esposito nods.

"Castle, on the other hand, is at home, recovering," Beckett adds. "Bringing him in alone won't make her happy, I know –"

"You think?" Ryan chuckles.

"You both know Rick," Kate continues, undaunted. "He's the one who figured out that Alfred Candela's death was part of the Holiday killings. He will help, which will give a bit of cover to Gates. That's what she needs right now."

"She needs these killings solved," Ryan disagrees.

"As do we all," Beckett nods. "I will get back in touch with you in about an hour, maybe two."

"You have something?"

"I think it is time to meet with our suspect, don't you?" Kate tells them.

"Theresa?" Esposito remarks with surprise. "You know where she is?"

"I do," Kate replies. "Alfred is dead. She will be with her daughter. There is no need for her to be in hiding anymore. Plus, she doesn't know that she is a suspect."

"Okay, let us know what you find," Esposito continues. "Kevin and I are going to pay a visit to bar owner from last night. Something isn't sitting well with me there."

"What's on your mind?" Kate asks, smiling on the other end.

"I've been to that bar before," Esposito reminds her. "Go to enough Yankee games and you end up there before or after a game. There are quite a few cameras there. Something picked up something."

"I'm surprised someone isn't reviewing them already," Beckett remarks.

"I'm sure someone is," Ryan agrees. "But it depends what you are looking for, right?"

"Call me when you know something," their friend requests, and then clicks off.

Kate Beckett smiles as she hangs up, immediately pulling up Richard Castle's contact information. She begins typing, sitting with legs crisscrossed atop the king-sized bed in the large hotel room in Times Square.

" _Hey Rick. Expect a call from Javier or Kevin. Looks like your assistance is going to be requested by the NYPD."_

She doesn't wait for a reply, but instead heads directly to the bathroom, peeling clothes off as she heads for her morning shower.

.

 **A/N:** I'm posting Chapter 12 along with this one, at the same time, so feel free to click ahead and read that chapter as well.


	12. Chapter 12

**Holiday – Chapter 12**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 7:42 a.m. At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City**_

.

Richard Castle sits on a barstool at his kitchen island, his hand idly playing with a piece of bacon. The smell of the sizzling meat still permeates throughout the loft, as the remaining pieces remain in the frying skillet.

He glances again at the text message Kate Beckett has left on his burner phone minutes ago. He considers replying, but is now wondering what is going on. She has told him he should expect a request for assistance from the precinct. But that insinuation is that 'he' should expect this for himself, not for the both of them. It doesn't mean she will be joining, and truth be told, it doesn't make sense for her to go to the precinct. Not if she wants to investigate this on her own.

Before he can further consider the morning's developments, his regular phone rings. He smiles as he hears the ring tone. He answers on the second ring.

"Hi Eliza," he greets the barkeep. "Early morning for you, isn't it?"

"Just checking to see how you are doing, Rick," she tells him. "You weren't very talkative last night, and I just . . . well, I was just worried."

"Nothing to worry about, I promise you," he tells her, then surprises her with an offering. "Are you up for breakfast since you're awake?"

"That'd be great, Rick," she replies, and the excitement is clear in her voice. "I'd love to see you. It seems like it's been forever."

"That's my fault," he admits. "There is a lot going on, and I've been kind of walking a tightrope here. I'm used to operating more on the inside, and may have an opportunity to do just that."

"What do you mean?" she asks, now concerned.

"I'll bring you up to speed over breakfast," he promises, tossing the uneaten bacon on his plate into the trash. "Where is your pleasure?"

"My pleasure is sitting at a loft someone in the city," she tells him. It is one of the first downright outward flirting motions she has offered. She waits to see if he will take the bait.

"I should be so lucky," he chuckles.

"Maybe that can be arranged, Rick," she replies. "Come to the bar – I will whip something up."

"Not necessary," he tells her. "I was thinking more of a diner or a hotel restaurant, where you don't have to be behind a bar or in a kitchen."

"And I am thinking more of making breakfast for a certain guy," she argues. "Let me do this for you."

He considers the request for a moment, and something about her voice tells him this is important to her, for some reason. He simply nods, and agrees.

"I will be there in an hour. Does that work?"

"It works great," she smiles. "I'm glad I called. I will see you soon."

He smiles as he hangs up. He is entirely conflicted right now, as he rubs his still sore forehead. Eliza Rourke has been something of a godsend to him these past months. She has been his breath of fresh air. She is beautiful, she is kind, she has a fierce determination. Red hair aside, she reminds him of someone else in personality – except she has been up front and honest at all times. It's clear that she cares for him, and if he is honest with himself, he knows he cares for her also. How much is unclear.

She also, however, has gone on record that she isn't interested in pursuing anything until she feels he is over Kate Beckett. So it gives him pause this morning, wondering what has changed to make her think that he is over the ex-detective. And dreams about an ex-detective aside, he is giving more serious thought to a safer existence with a woman clearly interested in him.

" _Safer existence,"_ he laughs to himself. _"I've been almost killed with both of them,"_ he reminds himself. He has a history of close calls with Beckett, the most recent being yesterday morning. And his mind reels back to an evening months ago as he dragged Eliza out of an exploding building, earning the trust and respect of her mobster father.

He thinks about her father briefly, and cannot suppress the pang of guilt he feels for a bit of exterior motive in suggesting breakfast with the daughter. Something is happening in this city. Something nefarious, dangerous. Something criminal. Breakfast with a beautiful woman is nice, yeah, but it may also be an opportunity to set up a little face-to-face with Finn Rourke, Eliza's father. Very little happens in the shadows of the city without the elder man knowing about it.

The risk, of course, is that the mobster isn't keen on talking shop with Castle, that much has been made abundantly clear. However, getting almost blown up outside Kate Beckett's apartment yesterday changes the game a bit. Castle knows it will be well within his right to ask the man a few questions about what he may know since his own personal safety has been threatened.

At least he is hoping that is the case.

He picks up his burner phone again, and replies to the original text from Kate this morning.

" _Okay. Going to breakfast with a friend. May lead to a sit down with her father."_

The reply is instantaneous.

" _The red-head?"_

He frowns at her message, but replies quickly.

" _Yes. I will be careful."_

Back at her hotel room in Times Square, Kate stands outside the shower, holding the phone, reading the message. She was seconds away from stepping into the shower when she got Castle's reply.

The red-head.

She knows the woman is interested. Beyond interested. Months of being inundated with videos of Eliza Rourke interacting with Richard Castle have told her very clearly what the woman's intentions are. No, Castle may or may not have a personal motive for breakfast, she realizes, but there is no such question about the motives of the woman in question.

"Dammit," she mutters aloud, finally crawling into the shower. There is nothing she can do about it right now. She knows the situation she finds herself in with her former flame are entirely of her own making. And damn it all to hell, history is repeating itself, forcing her to choose between her personal and professional goals.

She turns the water on full, enjoying the spray of hot water on her face. She bites against the sting, allowing the onslaught of water to invigorate her spirits.

"Can't I have both?" she asks the universe out loud. "Why do I have to keep choosing? When do I get to focus on me?

The tears that form in her eyes surprise her. At first, she mistakes it for the spray against her face, but it quickly becomes apparent that this is a more natural reaction taking place.

She wonders when is the last time she has cried tears over this man . . . then suddenly realizes that the answer to that question is most honestly never. Perhaps that first night at his loft, when she came to him the rain after hanging on a ledge and swinging on a swing set.

She closes her eyes, dropping her head down toward the shower floor as she absorbs this realization. It is the first time she has seriously – in a moment of pure reflection – considered the journey she has embarked over the past decade plus since her mother's murder. Sure, that first night after escaping hanging off that building brought her to Richard Castle's home.

"That was a selfish reaction," she admits out loud. She knows now – hell, she knew then – that it was nothing more than one of those decisions made earnestly, but in the heat of the moment. But it wasn't a lasting moment. Months later, she was already straddling the fence, living with one foot on both sides.

One minute she and Castle were making love in bed, then the next minute they are arguing over something as simple – as stupid – as video games.

One minute she is standing on a bomb, and he won't leave her. The next minute, she is kissing another man, and looking at a job that would take her hours away.

It dawns on her that it has been those life-threatening times that drew them closer – Fighting Cole Maddox atop the rooftops, or standing on a pressure-sensing bomb – it always took a life-or-death situation to focus her on Richard Castle.

So yeah, the fact that she has tears streaming down her face over the prospect of losing – or having already lost – this man, without any assistance from any life-threatening scenario is both comforting and humbling. And no, yesterday morning's blast doesn't count. She's already convinced that yesterday was a warning, not an attempt on her life.

Or his.

She opens her eyes, her vision clearing as she focuses on the white tile of the shower floor. Suddenly, the world crystalizes in front of her, as clear as the metal stopper covering the water drain at her feet. Someone is after her. At a minimum, they want her back in the city.

Well, mission accomplished. People are dying. And she is in some level of danger, as yesterday attests.

The words of Elena Markov replay in her ears, words from their flight across the Atlantic that brought her back to New York. But now, for some reason, she hears the words with different ears, with a different perspective.

" _WHO you are . . . well that remains to be seen,"_ Elena had told her, as she replays the conversation in her mind. She almost sees the subtle smile on her friend's face. A smile of . . . hope?

" _WHAT you are . . . that is what we must discuss_ ," Elena had continued, and that had been that. What followed was a discussion about her new set-up, her new apartment and its modifications and weapons and technologies.

An apartment that no longer exists.

"Who I am is more important than what I am," Kate whispers aloud, her voice muffled by the water. "That's what she has been trying to get me to accept. Hell, to even consider."

She turns one hundred and eighty degrees, now facing away from the shower spray, allowing the pulsating water to batter her back and backside. She straightens her arm, horizontally placing them as leverage against the back wall of the shower, closing her eyes again.

"Who am I, really?" she asks out loud, knowing that was the question Elena posed to her more than once in Romania. A question she never really considered. Her focus was always on 'what', not 'who.' Her focus always on the mission, not the person.

 _What_ she has been has been obvious. Her mother's avenger, her father's protector, the rising star detective of the NYPD.

 _Who_ she has been . . . who she is . . . that has remained unimportant, unanswered and unchallenged. Until now.

She considers her mother once again. Her mother had been a Valkyrie. Elena had been very clear on that. Yet Elena had not told her more beyond that. Even when pressed, even when Kate had asked why her mother joined, when her mother had joined, what her mother did, . . . Elena's response was always the same.

" _That is the wrong question to ask,"_ Elena would tell her, and then change the subject.

"So, what is the right question?" Beckett asks herself again, as she has many times in the past few months. Those months in Romania, isolated in the cave, they haunt her dreams. They haunt her waking moments. The training was necessary, she realizes. She smiles to herself as she stares downward at her body. Her muscles are taut, and while she has always been lean – she realizes that the physical training she underwent has toned her far more than anything else she has experienced – as an athlete or a police recruit.

Yeah, the physical training made sense.

But why the isolation? Why the mind games? Why the time in the cave, with pictures of her mother, pictures of Castle, pictures of his red-headed plaything . . .

She pours shampoo into her hands, then runs her hands through her long hair, massaging her scalp as she goes. She feels tight muscles in her arm flexing effortlessly at the motion, smiling again at the physical prowess she now possesses, the physical confidence. It crosses her mind that perhaps under these new conditions, with this new conditioning, the rooftop battle with Cole Maddox would have gone differently.

She finds it comforting, somehow, this knowledge that she is stronger, faster, more agile – more confident. That she is a better fighter . . . a better . . . warrior . . . because of her training and experiences of the past few months. She idly wonders how this will come into play in the current campaign as her admittedly-wandering mind finds itself back squarely with Richard Castle for a brief instant . . . when it hits her.

She stares down at her legs, then her arms, flexing muscles. Her eyes widen as her mind rails against the questions that suddenly, without warning, have exploded within her consciousness. Cole Maddox appears in front of her yet again, but his face begins to distort, to blur. She blinks away the water and shampoo that runs down her face, dropping her head into the spray to wash away the suds that adorn her head.

Seconds later, as she opens her eyes once again, the face of Cole Maddox appears, then slowly disappears, and suddenly it is the face of another long-deceased enemy . . . this time, Dick Coonan, who appears. The ex-professional hit man's natural smirk mocks her, as always, but this time she blinks the image away. It doesn't make sense.

She glances at her own knuckles, flexing her fingers as the ex-assassin's visage appears in her mind yet again.

"How . . ."

She forgoes the conditioner for now. She can always climb back into the shower, but her mind is racing now, with questions and more questions, and she finds herself suddenly afraid of the potential answers that lie in wait for her.

She exits the shower, grabbing a towel and immediately wiping her face, then wrapping her body, ignoring her now damp hair. She grabs the burner phone she has been using, and – deciding against texting – places a call to the one person who can answer the questions now taking front and center in her head.

She finds herself starting at her image in the mirror as the phone rings, only snapping back into the present when she hears the Russian's voice in greeting.

"Hello Kate," Elena offers by way of greeting. "What can I do for you this morning?"

"You can answer a question," Beckett tells her evenly, measuring her words as she knows how evasive her friend on the other end can be.

"A few questions, actually," Beckett begins. "The training I went through in Romania . . . the physical training, the fighting techniques, the movements and conditioning . . . that is something that all recruits undergo, correct?"

"Yes," is the single word reply she receives. Unknown to her, however, her friend is smiling broadly at the other end.

" _Perhaps she is finally getting there,"_ Elena Markov thinks to herself as she hears Kate continue.

"And it has always been this way," Kate asks, but it is more a statement than a question.

"Yes," comes the single word reply once again.

"In the days of my mother," Kate continues. "This was the type of training that my mother underwent during her time."

"Yes," Markov replies again, knowing where this is going . . . knowing that Kate has finally made the full-circle journey and wondering where this will leave her new friend. It strikes her that she considers the ex-detective a friend, but quickly dismisses the idea as Kate continues.

"I . . . I don't know, Elena . . ."

She is struggling now, not sure of where to go, how to proceed. It doesn't make sense . . . it is a hole in a puzzle that can't be ignored, but can't be filled either.

"I am struggling with this," Kate pushes onward. "I look at the training I have gone through . . . I look at how much better I am – I mean as a fighter. I think back at the adversaries I have faced, Elena. Men. Strong men. Men that I could not take two, three years ago . . . but now . . ."

Elena allows the silence between the two women to settle for a few seconds . . . and then a few more. Almost ten seconds pass before Elena finally acquiesces.

"Ask the question, Kate Beckett," she orders, almost in an officious tone of voice. It is the push she knows the struggling woman on the other end needs.

"I was thinking about Dick Coonan this morning," Kate begins, and unseen by her, the Russian at the other end nods her head and sits down. She almost considers suggesting the same to her friend, but Kate pushes forward.

"He was a professional hit-man," Kate continues. "He was good. Good with a knife. But he wasn't all that impressive as a fighter."

She pauses as she remembers how easily Coonan got the drop on Castle in the precinct, but Castle was a novice – a writer. Not a trained cop, not a trained fighter.

"He was good with his little toys," Kate remembers aloud, repeating her thought process. "But he wasn't someone who I would have worried about fighting . . . and that was before going through everything I went through over in . . . that was before I was . . . who . . . what I am now."

"Ask the question, Kate Beckett," Elena repeats.

"How, Elena?" Kate asks, and the Russian hears the fear in her friend's voice. She hasn't put it together yet. She has questions, not answers.

" _That changes now,"_ Elena thinks to herself.

"How did a regular goon, a typical hood like Dick Coonan get the drop on my mother?" Kate asks. "I've seen the training we go through – I know what it means. And I knew Coonan. I knew his capabilities. There is no way –"

"You have finally asked the right question, my friend," Elena Markov interrupts her. "Why don't we ask her ourselves."

Her mental count reaches two when she hears the reaction.

"I . . . what . . . excuse me?"

"You want to know how a normal, untrained criminal took down your mother, face-to-face," Elena repeats for her. "Let's ask her."

"Ask who?" Kate cries, incredulous of where she knows this has now gone.

"Your mother," Elena replies. And sure enough, the Russian hears her friend collapse onto the floor at the other end.

.

 **A/N:** Back when I first wrote The Wonder, the first segment of this trilogy, I really questioned this entire storyline. The idea that Kate Beckett would be the driven, focused woman that she is because of her mother's murder . . . when in fact, her mother _was never murdered_ , was something I found intriguing. I hope you do, also – and I hope everyone enjoys where this story has finally brought us.

The next chapter should be up next week. I don't think I will post it before Thanksgiving. I hope everyone who celebrates Thanksgiving has a wonderful holiday.


	13. Chapter 13

**Holiday – Chapter 13**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 10:23 a.m. On the top floor restaurant at a New York City hotel**_

.

Kate Beckett sits at a table in the corner, next to the window, staring outside at the city below. Her companion, Elena Markov, allows her this silence. The two women sit waiting here in the high-rise upscale restaurant atop the hotel overlooking the city.

The ex-NYPD detective is drumming her fingers atop the table, her feet fidgeting below the table – while tears of anger continue to sting her eyes. Her stoic expression will not allow a single tear to escape, and drop down her cheeks. The anger, the betrayal . . . it is beyond comprehension at this moment. The two women have been sitting here, silent for the last five or so minutes before both of their heads turn in the direction of the elevator at the opposite end, both hearing the 'ding' at the same time.

Her heart almost stops as she sees the unmistakable form of her mother – older now, yes, but without question it is Johanna Beckett – exit the elevator. The older woman glances around, finds the pair of eyes focused on her, smiles and approaches the duo. The smile on her face is genuine as she arrives and stands at the table. This genuine smile, however, fades as she realizes that her daughter is not going to stand up and greet her. Instead, Kate sits paralyzed at the table, her mind screaming against her eyes. She pulls her hands underneath the table, fists clenched. Her head whips quickly to her left toward the Russian when she feels Markov's hand surround hers under the table.

It is a moment of intimate support and comfort that is unlike the Russian, and the newness of the action spurs Kate back to the present moment.

Johanna, embracing the clearly uncomfortable moment, pulls a chair out across the table from her daughter and her companion, and sits.

"Hello, Kate," Johanna begins.

Frustrated with herself, Kate cannot restrain the tears that now fall freely simply at hearing a voice she thought would never speak to her again. It is not lost on her that what should be a joyous and miraculous reunion is anything but.

For her part, Johanna quickly understands that explanations are in order, and so she begins without giving Kate time to ask questions.

"I'm sure you have questions . . . and anger . . . and both are justified," Johanna begins. "I can help you with the former, but not the latter."

Elena Markov gives her friend's hand a squeeze under the table. For Elena, Kate's silence is understandable. It is as if she is seeing a ghost, and this ghost is calmly talking to her as if it has been days, not a decade and a half, since they last spoke.

The very thought of the word 'ghost' takes her back to Central Park, and a conversation she had months ago with the woman sitting next to her, after the woman had summarily executed Scott Dunn.

" _You have so much potential, Kate,"_ Elena had told her. _"And you have done so little with it. You have your entire world imploding around you, yet you continue to swing at ghosts, and ghosts of ghosts."_

Ghosts. And ghosts of ghosts. It didn't make sense at the time. Now, the brutal truth of it all knocks the wind from her.

"I will begin at the beginning," Johanna continues. She brushes a strand of brown hair – with an occasional streak of gray – from her face. It is a face free of wrinkles, lightly made up. It is exactly as Kate would have expected her to look, had she lived.

Except she _did_ live. She never died. Kate can only stifle a sob that threatens to escape.

"Obviously, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," Johanna chuckles, trying humor to break the ice. Not surprisingly, she is unsuccessful.

"The Valkyrie movement staged my murder, as you have no doubt surmised," she continues. "They . . . or I should say – we – then staged the deaths of my co-workers in the firm. To keep them safe. Both have been living safely on the west coast with their families under disguise. Kind of like an unofficial witness protection program. Except ours actually works."

"Thank you," Johanna tells the waiter who has appeared and poured water into her empty glass.

"May I get you something to drink, ma'am?" he asks.

"No, water will be fine for now - thank you though," she tells him, dismissing him with a wave before turning back to the two women with her.

"We staged my death, because an operative high up within our project died," Johanna continues. "Natural causes, but it caused an opening at the upper levels in the organization, which caused other openings. It was my chance to move upward, a number of levels, quickly."

She sees Kate shake her head, blinking in disbelief at the notion that her mother would throw her family away – would throw _her_ away – over a . . . a job? A position? Just as quickly, the irony that she has done this very thing to someone who loved her keeps her silent.

"Ours is a very fluid organization, Katie," she continues quickly, using the old name that she and Jim Beckett often used with their daughter. "And even then, we knew that there was a certain person we wanted to recruit. She was the ideal candidate. Athletic. Smart. Young. Moldable."

She stops talking and stares at her daughter, before her daughter gets it.

"Me," Kate almost whispers, remembering another conversation with Elena Markov, this one as they traveled eastward across the Atlantic toward her training. It seems almost a lifetime ago now.

"Yes, you," Johanna acknowledges. "You were perfect, except for one detail. You lacked drive. You lacked the necessary edge. Relationships were the most important thing to you, and that is something we needed to change before bringing you in. So – with the new opening available and the desire to eventually bring you in - we arranged my death. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."

Kate opens her mouth to speak, but Johanna holds up a hand to stop her.

"Let me finish," she tells her daughter. "There will be plenty of time for questions."

Her impersonal demeanor, her detachment . . . for a sudden instant, Kate Beckett begins to understand – personally and firsthand – how a certain author must have felt numerous times in their relationship.

"We staged my murder, and framed Dick Coonan by, quote – killing me – unquote, in the same fashion that he was known for," Johanna tells her, using her fingers to make quotation marks in the air. "By the way, I heard that you eventually put him down. Do not feel guilty. While he was not guilty of killing me, his hands were most certainly blood red from numerous other killings."

She takes a sip of water, before continuing.

"Dick Coonan was never there, in that alley that day," Johanna tells her. "No one was killed in that alley. No one –"

"The autopsies –" Kate begins, but is quickly cut off again.

"Performed by a medical examiner within the fold," Johanna explains. "The story we desired was created and supported by resources we put in place. My only surprise, Kate, is that it took you this long – fourteen years, for crying out loud – to begin to piece all of this together. You were so fixated on _me_ , on _our relationship_ – that you ignored fairly obvious clues for a supposed top-notch detective."

It is a slap that causes even Elena Markov to frown. The Russian knows how difficult this is for her friend. Her mother is not making it any easier. Then again, this woman in front of her has not been Kate's mother for over a decade.

"Think about it, Kate," Johanna begins counting off on her fingers. "You are an established detective, yet you did not ask the most pertinent questions. Such as why would an attorney – why would an attorney's firm – one that focuses on civil cases – press on with this case? You know that I found out about Bracken – who was the assistant district attorney at the time. You know that I knew he had resorted to blackmailing cops. Hell, Roy Montgomery sent me a tape clearly proving Brackens guilt. That much I know you might not have been aware of. Still – I'm a civil attorney who knows that the assistant DA has his hands bloody, and is threatening to kill me if I don't drop the case. And I know the cops are in his pocket. And the mob is involved. I know there is no one I can trust. So why continue? Why would I press on, potentially risking my life, my family's lives?"

She lets the question hang there for a moment before continuing.

"You know that I knew about Bracken, that the corrupt police were in his pocket. Why wouldn't I just go to the FBI? In what universe does it make sense for an untrained civil lawyer to go up against a corrupt assistant DA, a corrupt police force, angry mobsters – and all for a corrupt criminal behind bars who – although not guilty of the crime he was in for, was certainly behind bars for good reason?"

Kate Beckett has pushed herself away from the table. She wants to stand up, to flee, to run away. Elena's grasp prevents that.

"Stop running, Kate," her friend whispers to her. "No more running, my friend. Ever again."

Kate looks at the hand that holds onto her. She looks into Elena's eyes, and for the first time in their relationship, she sees something new.

Sympathy.

No. Not sympathy.

Empathy.

It occurs to her that there is a story behind those eyes. A story that she will soon ask about. But for now, there are gaps in the story she is hearing. Gaps that need to be filled in.

"Suppose I buy this story," Kate begins, sitting back down and pulling herself closer to the table. "Bracken is no dummy. He would know that Coonan didn't kill my mother. Surely Coonan would not have admitted that he was the one who took car of . . . you . . . and your friends if he, in fact, did nothing of the sort. This doesn't make –"

"An anonymous call was placed to Mr. Coonan, Kate," her mother tells her. "The caller told him that he no longer had to worry about the attorneys in question, that it was already taken care of. And that it was done in the fashion he would have chosen. We told him that it was important for him to take credit for this, and he would be taken care of if he ever spoke otherwise."

"Dick Coonan was a –" Kate begins, but is interrupted.

"Coward," Johanna tells her. "Dick Coonan was a coward who did exactly what we told him to do."

"But why?" Kate asks.

"Why do you think?" Johanna answers. "So that we would have the proper leverage over one of Bracken's thugs if we ever needed it. We knew that Bracken had big plans – long-term plans far bigger than becoming the district attorney for New York City."

"How could you do this, Mom?" Kate finally explodes, her voice slightly raising. She's gotten a few answers, a few explanations . . . excuses really. But the real questions haven't been answered yet.

"How could you leave us? How could you do this to Dad?" she asks. "What about our friends? What about me?"

"Your dad," Johanna almost chokes out. It is clear that there is something dark there. This surprises Kate, the almost animosity her mother shows as she all but spits the name out.

"Your dad was weak," Johanna continues. "He still is weak. Do you know how long it took him to approach me, to – how do they say it – make his move on me when we were dating? He thought it was cute. And it took him even longer than that to accept my so-called death!"

"For crissakes, how could you do this?" Kate repeats. "Do you know what this _did_ to Dad? He got lost in the bottle for _years_ over this.

"Your father drank from guilt, not sorrow!" Johanna tells her evenly. She gazes at Elena Markov, who is almost pleading with her eyes not to drop this shoe as well.

"Guilt for what?" Kate asks, and there is real fear now showing in her eyes, as Elena leans back in her chair.

"Guilt for not telling you," Johanna says, her gaze now hard on her daughter. A few seconds pass as Kate – now visibly shaken – swallows audibly.

"He . . . Dad knew?" she asks, as Elena drops her head.

"Of course he knew," her mother replies. "Just as your Mr. Castle knows about you. We aren't . . . I'm not a complete monster."

"Yes," Kate replies angrily, now standing and ready to depart. "That is exactly what you are. Both of you."

"Sit down!" her mother orders, forcefully. The look of intensity on her face startles Kate, who glances at her friend next to her who still sits.

"Sit down, Kate," Elena tells her more softly, but with equal force. "It is time you learned everything. And did not run from it."

"My death put you on your path, Kate," Johanna argues, ignoring the Russian at the table. "Don't you see that? You were following in my footsteps. You were chasing my destiny, not your own. An attorney? Why would you want to be an attorney, when you could have been . . . and have since, become . . . so much more! You just needed a push in the right direction."

"A push?!" her daughter exclaims.

"You would never have joined this thing of ours without that push," Johanna tells her. "You were always too binary. Too black and white. No gray. Without a drive, without a passion, without the proper motivation, you would never embrace this as you have. You would have just dutifully followed mommy and daddy in their footsteps. My death gave your life the purpose, the change of direction it needed."

Kate is far too dumbfounded now to speak, or barely think. The tears have stopped, and there is a coldness developing inside her. She has long imagined a fantasy world, where her mother is still alive; where she goes home and hears the phone ringing – and her mom is on the other end; where she wakes up on a weekend and meets her mother a the diner around the corner for breakfast. But this? This is no fantasy. This is a nightmare.

Her mom betrayed her. Her father as well. She feels utterly alone in the world. And if things couldn't get worse – she has no one she can count on, no one to console her. No one she can trust. Clearly nothing that has been said this morning has been a surprise to Elena Markov. And while Elena has offered comfort, even she cannot be fully trusted, that much is certain.

Castle? Hell, he doesn't trust _her_.

"Kate? Kate, where are you going?" Johanna calls to the now retreating woman. Kate hasn't bothered to say goodbye – to either woman. Right now, she just needs to get out. Her steps quicken as she approaches the elevator. Fortunately, she does not have to wait, as the door opens just as she arrives. She steps in, immediately pushing the button for the lobby, as Elena quickly steps onto the elevator car as well.

Kate turns to look at her friend, who, it appears, is intentionally avoiding eye contact. The two are quiet as the elevator descends quickly, opening to the lobby less than twenty seconds later. Both women exit, and head immediately to the doors leading outside to the streets. Elena reaches the curb first, raising a hand to hail a cab.

" _That could have gone better,"_ the Russian thinks to herself. She is surprised at the factual, matter-of-fact tone that Johanna has taken with her daughter upstairs. She opens the door to the cab, allowing Kate to slide in first. She half shuts the door without getting in, drawing an upward glance from the ex-detective.

"You need time," Elena tells her. "Call me when you wish to speak again."

Kate simply nods, as Elena nods in return.

"I am sorry, Kate," Elena tells her. "I am truly sorry."

The door shuts, and Elena walks back into the lobby of the hotel, no doubt headed back upstairs. The cab driver glances backward, via the rear-view mirror, at his new fare.

"Where to lady?" he asks.

"Drive," Kate tells him. "Just drive."

The taxi cab pulls away as Kate leans back into the seat, closing her eyes and unknowingly counting off numbers in her head . . . anything to calm herself down, anything to escape the horror show of a breakfast she has just witnessed.

Her hand unconsciously reaches for her cell phone, and without thinking, she punches Richard Castle's contact. She listens to four rings before it rolls to voice mail. She calls again, with the same result.

"Dammit Rick, please pick up," she whispers aloud, as she tries a third time. This time she only allows it to ring three times before hanging up. She quickly sends a text, typing a simple message.

" _Please call me Rick. Please."_

She can think of nothing else to say, nothing else to type. The city passes by her view through the taxi window, block after block, before she gives the cab driver her destination.

"Marriott, Times Square, please," she tells him as she knocks on the dividing window. She sees him acknowledge her, and when he turns back in the direction of Times Square, she leans back again, closing her eyes. She replays the entire conversation from the restaurant. All she sees are the cold eyes of the woman she once called "Mom".

But no more.

She quickly pulls up another contact on her cell phone, and hits SEND. The phone rings twice before a familiar, friendly voice greets her.

"Hey Kate," the voice answers. "It's been a while."

"Hi Jordan," Kate begins. "Do you have time to talk. I really, really need a friend right now."

.

 **A/N:** As much as I have loved the Johanna/Bracken storyline, which I always thought was so fresh and poignant for a show like Castle, I also always had a problem with Johanna's mentality. As she herself states in her conversation with Kate in this chapter, how in the world would a civil attorney realistically think she could go up against a corrupt politician who had the police in his pocket, and therefore likely also had mob connections – and this guy has already threatened you? And you don't approach the FBI? You continue with your crusade? For a mobster, at that? I just didn't buy it.

Regardless, this development now puts Kate Beckett into a real pickle, because what is real for her anymore? Her entire motivation for becoming a cop has just been rendered moot, the person who she was closest too in her life has just been proven to be a betraying liar, and the man who she spent years pulling out of an alcoholic gutter, it turns out, has lied to her as well – about the most important event in her life.

As I stated all the way back in The Wonder, this trilogy is about the redemption of Kate Beckett, and as anyone who has ever gone through a redemptive journey knows, there are startling revelations you often must push through on that journey. Among them, the realization (that has not yet hit her) that the woman she mourned has been in New York City all this time!

Just a few more chapters, and we should be finished by Christmas. Thanks again to everyone who is reading and following.


	14. Chapter 14

**Holiday – Chapter 14**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 10:45 a.m. At a small diner on the West Side of the city**_

.

"You look good, Mr. Castle," Eliza Rourke tells him, her smile bright as she moves the scrambled eggs around on her plate with her fork. She gazes down at the man across the table from her, more specifically at his pocket, where a cell phone is buzzing incessantly.

"You, too, Eliza," he admits. He has missed this woman. He has missed her easy-going way. He has missed her admittedly beautiful face. He has missed her laughter. He ignores the buzzing phone, reaching from outside his pocket to click on the side button to silence it.

"I was hoping that you and I might have a different type of Christmas," she tells him, happy to see him not take the call. It doesn't matter who it is, at this point. "It certainly isn't turning out the way I wanted," she continues with a sad face.

"I know, I'm sorry," he replies, and he means this. Eliza has become a good friend. More, she has become someone he confides in. Someone he believes in, simply because he knows she doesn't lie to him. She's not Meredith, or Gina. And she certainly isn't Kate.

"It isn't what I anticipated either. This holiday season has gotten away from us, hasn't it?" he remarks. It isn't a question.

"There is still time to get it back, you know," she tells him, dropping her eyes oh so slightly. It has the desired effect. It always does. She learned, long ago, the effect her sultry pout has on this man.

The buzzing in his pocket interrupts both of them, again, and this time she can see his annoyance.

"Don't answer it it, Rick," she pleads. "Just give me a few more moments with you."

"This might be important, Eliza," he tells her, reaching into his pocket. "And I'm not talking about _her_. This many calls in a row, it might be Alexis."

Sure enough, he frowns slightly as he sees three missed calls from Kate Beckett, and two text messages; one from Kate, and the other from Detective Javier Esposito. He reads the message from Kate. It's a simple message. Please call. She calls him Rick. She's been doing that lately. There's nothing special about the message, until he considers it followed three unanswered phone calls. He makes a mental note to call her as soon as he is finished here.

He reads the text message from the detective, with raised eyebrows.

' _Hey Castle – FYI we picked up Theresa Candela this morning. Holiday. Will be interrogating in a few'_

He nods, grateful that his friend has – as promised – kept him in the loop. He looks up to see the confused and slightly hurt look on the face of his breakfast companion.

"It's not what you think," he tells her. "Just a message from the precinct, letting me know something," he tells her, withholding the trio of calls and the text from Kate.

"The precinct?" Eliza asks, still confused. "I thought you were out of all of that, Rick. Dammit, Rick, the detective leaving was your chance to get out. To move on. To get away from the cops, the cases. It was a chance for you to create a safer life, a simpler life for you and your daughter. For your mother. You're a writer, not a cop, Rick."

"I know that, Eliza," he replies, surprised at the direction of the conversation. Then again, he considers who he is speaking with. The daughter of a mobster. The daughter who has probably seen too much violence, too much danger. That she would want him away from police work simply makes sense.

"I know," he continues, "but I am more than a writer, Eliza. Writing is just my job. It's not who I am. Who I am is someone who wants to help people –"

"And you have helped _me_ ," she reminds him. "You have helped my father."

"I know, Eliza," he answers. "But I don't want to stop there. As I said, who I am is someone who wants to help. Someone who wants to make a difference."

He knows in his mind, that is why he killed off Derrick Storm all those years ago. He was bored. And he wasn't just bored with the character in a book series. He was bored with his own life. Which, in turn, led him to continue down his admittedly-juvenile walk.

"Plus, they are my friends," he tells her. "We don't just turn out back on friends, do we?"

"No, we don't," she agrees, hoping he doesn't see the disappointment on her face.

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 11:15 a.m. At the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct in New York City**_

.

Theresa Candela is fighting back tears of frustration, as her aching arms are handcuffed behind her back at a slightly odd angle. But it's not the pain that is front and center of her mind right now. It's the horrible sense of déjà vu that assaults her senses at the moment, as she finds herself once again in an interrogation room at the 12th Precinct. In fact, it may be the same room that she occupied a few years back, during that 'other' time.

Who knows, all of these rooms look the same to her.

More than that, it feels the same . . . except this time there is a harsher edge to those in the room with her. A few years ago, it was a kidnapping case – but everyone knew, at that time, that it was a 'kidnapping that wasn't a kidnapping'. It was a set-up. The young girl in question was never in any real danger.

But this is different.

Alfred is dead. There is nothing faux about this. This was no set-up. At least not in how these police officers sitting across from her are thinking.

"Ok, let's go over this again," Detective Javier Esposito tells her, snapping her attention back to the present moment. His eyes have a hard edge to them, and those of his partner – she assumes it is his partner – aren't much better. Worse, however, is the stoic black woman in the corner, who appears to be in charge. She stepped into the room about five minutes ago, and has yet to say a word, but the deference being shown her by the two men is obvious.

"We have video, from The Dugout, that shows you meeting with your ex-husband. The manager of The Dugout informed us that you and Alfred had a falling out during your dinner, or whatever that was."

"Couples argue all the time," Theresa counters. She is not given time to continue.

"Yeah, but this couple – you and your ex – have a not-so-pleasant history," Detective Kevin Ryan interrupts.

"Not the first time you have been here in this precinct with us," Esposito adds, glancing down at his notes.

The video in question from the bar captured her departure from the bar as well, after the 'argument' she started. A few well-placed calls to the local taxi companies identified which cab picked up a fare at that particular time from The Dugout that evening. A subsequent conversation with the driver of the identified cab told them where he dropped Theresa off in Yonkers. From there, it had been fairly simple detective work to find her residence at the old, orange-brick two-story where she has been staying earlier this morning. She came quietly, if not surprisingly.

Since then, it has been – as their old novelist/friend used to say – 'fun in the bullpen' with another squirming perp.

"Alfred and I argue all the time, whenever we speak," Theresa explains. "But I wasn't even there when Alfred was . . . when he was murdered," she continues, allowing her voice to break ever so slightly.

"And if you have video from the bar, as you say, then it should show you that much," she tells the trio in the interrogation room. "I had left after our argument. Whatever happened to poor Alfred happened after I left."

"Yeah, well 'poor Alfred' might have something different to say, if he were here," Esposito remarks. "It is kind of convenient that the cameras in the bar captured everything so perfectly – your little sit down with Alfred, your argument, you leaving. It's almost as if you knew where the cameras were."

"Almost as if you wanted this little performance to be seen," Kevin Ryan adds.

"I didn't kill my husband," Theresa defends.

"Your ex-husband," Ryan corrects her.

"Your husband was the real target all along, wasn't he?" Esposito asks, leaning back in his chair, now trying a different approach. "You set up all of those Holiday killings just to mask your real target – the man who has caused you so much grief these past years."

"What?" Theresa exclaims, and the surprise on her face is real. That, or she is an excellent actor. The team in the room is banking on the latter.

"It was a good plan, really," Esposito continues. "And to be honest, if it weren't for your little kidnapping foray a few years ago, we might not have put this together. But clearly – as the past shows us – you have a knack for diversionary tactics."

"For subterfuge," Ryan adds, with emphasis. "Although serial murders to hide your real target does seem a little Machiavellian even for you."

"Now wait just a minute!" Theresa explodes. "I didn't kill all those people. I may have –"

The look of horror on her face as she realizes what she has just offered is bested only by the smug grins on the faces of the two detectives sitting across from her.

"You may have what, Mrs. Candela?" Captain Victoria Gates interjects, now moving away from her position standing in the corner. She moves to stand behind the two sitting detectives, which has become her normal position during these types of interrogations.

Theresa places her hands on her face, hiding momentarily as she tries to correct her gaffe, as she attempts to recover. When she takes her hands away and looks up from her chair, she sees the cold, piercing stare from Captain Gates. The next words from the captain finally unnerve her.

"When I speak with the DA about the pre-meditated, heartless way in which you operate, and remind her of that fact that this is not your first cold-hearted criminal act, I can promise you that the full fury of the law will be like wind at our backs in that courtroom," Gates tells her.

"But . . . look, I didn't –"

"Oh, did we forget to tell you?" Kevin Ryan adds, dropping the final shoe atop the teetering crown of Theresa Candela's plans. "Your prints –"

"Fingerprints . . . you know what those are," Esposito interrupts, his stare as cold as that of his captain.

"Your prints," Ryan continues, "were found at not one – but two – of the murder sites. Including the site of the previous Holiday murder."

"The day before your husband's murder," Gates adds.

"Literally outside my apartment door," Esposito continues. "So forgive me if this doesn't seem a little too personal, a little too close to home for me . . . to know that the Holiday killer –"

"That's you, by the way," Ryan adds with almost a smirk.

"To know that the Holiday killer was outside my apartment door?" Esposito concludes.

The blood rushes from the naturally dark-tanned face of Theresa Candela, as she grips the table with trembling fingers. Only now is she beginning to suspect . . . to realize . . . that she has been set up. She takes a deep breath, and suddenly the look of panic, of fear is replaced by a look of pure anger. Even for the hardened detectives, it is a surprising turnabout.

"I didn't kill those people," she tells the room, an edge now to her voice. "Yes, I orchestrated the murder of that bastard, Alfred," she admits, wondering in the back of her mind if even this can be swung to her advantage in the eyes of a sympathetic court.

"Nina – my sister, Nina – informed me a few months ago that Alfred was considering taking me back to court. He was looking to take full custody of Angela, with limited visitation rights. As if he hadn't done enough to ruin my life. To ruin my daughter's life. I decided then and there that I wasn't going to allow him to do that – to put Angela through that. All of his success, all of his money – it all came from me. And now that he is selling a few good pieces, and getting money on his own, the first thing he decides to do with his new money is come after me? After my child? No!"

Yeah, this could possibly play out well in front of a jury – it's pre-meditated yes, but still . . . In her mind, anything is possible.

She begins to explain how this information sent her over the edge, and she eventually reached into the seedy underworld of the city, looking for the right kind of contact who might be able to help her, or at least point her in the right direction. A contact, a connection who would end Alfred's interference once and for all.

"The gentlemen I met, they told me that given my . . . history with Alfred, I should disappear for a bit. If anything happened to him now, it would all come back to me. So I need to disappear. Just for a month or two. Give them time to put things into motion. Make it look like I have gone away. Then I would come back, making overtures for reconciliation. The only problem was Angela. I couldn't take her with me. No jury would have been sympathetic to a mother taking her daughter away from the father twice. Even a bastard like Alfred. Not again."

She is speaking freely and openly now. Sure, she has gotten off for kidnapping before. Perhaps she can talk her way out of murder. At least those are the thoughts flowing through a very warped mind at the moment. But even Theresa realizes that there is no sympathy for a serial killer, so she has to make sure that they see how she has been set up to take the fall.

"So I left Angela with Nina, with instructions that Nina would take her to Alfred immediately," Theresa continues. "Which she did. So now Alfred has Angela, I'm out of the picture. We figured that Nina telling him I have had to go away for a bit, to consider things – it would put him in the proper frame of mind for my return."

She glances at the three stoic faces staring back at her, unclear of whether her words are having any impact. She decides to push forward.

"When I returned, I reached out to Alfred, telling him I had reconsidered our relationship, and asked him to meet me at The Dugout."

"All to solidify your alibi," Gates remarks. Candela ignores the captain, pushing forward with her story.

"So I set up a little dinner and drink meeting with Alfred as I was instructed by my contacts," she continues. "They told me that they would take care of things. Told me where to walk, to make sure that I was seen by the cameras. They made sure that Alfred sat in clear view of the cameras. Patrons would see me with Alfred. They would see us argue. The manager would see. And then they would see me leave. I should have been in the clear," she laments angrily, knowing that she would have been in the clear had not her prints been found at another site.

And she knows there is no way she put them there. So it has to be a set up. But why?

"You have to believe me," she continues. "I would never –"

"Do you want to know what I believe, Ms. Candela," Captain Gates interrupts. The captain has had – and heard – enough for now.

"I believe that you are every bit the serial killer you appear to be," Gates presses on. "I see how your mind works, how elaborate your reasoning can be. I don't know what caused you to snap like this. Perhaps it was the potential for losing your daughter. But I believe that you did – in fact – go on this elaborate killing spree, just as you orchestrated an elaborate kidnapping four or five years ago."

"But I didn't –"

Theresa doesn't get a chance to finish her sentence, as Captain Gates literally turns her back on her and walks away toward the door leading out of the interrogation room, stopping at the door to delivery her final thoughts.

"I believe, Ms. Candela, that you are a very determined woman, a woman who does her homework. I believe you are a woman for whom vengeance is second-nature. I believe that you saw this as a way to righting so many perceived wrongs in your life. A chance to get rid of your meddling ex-husband. And a chance to get back at the detective who caught you the first time, and the city that gave him joint custody of your daughter."

"Now wait a minute –"

"No, Ms. Candela, we are finished waiting," the captain interrupts again, her voice harsh. "I also believe there has been enough killing by you. You killed all of those people, and you did your homework. You knew ex-Detective Beckett was no longer on the force, and so you wanted to call her out. You wanted to bring her back so you could deal with her as well. And so you carved her dead mother's name in the bodies of the victims –"

"No!-"

"And you set your killings to a holiday-themed song that will never be the same for residents of this city," Gates fumes. "And you were successful, Ms. Candela. You terrified the city. You eliminated your husband. You forced ex-Detective Beckett to return to the city, and when she did you promptly attempted to kill her by blowing up her home –"

"What?!" Theresa Candela thunders, as the tears of anger and fear are now an avalanche rolling down her cheeks, as she stands suddenly, her knuckles whitening as they grip the table.

"And here is the final thing I believe," Gates concludes. "I believe that you are our killer, and the proof will come tonight, and tomorrow morning. I believe that now that we have you in our custody, there will be no more Holiday killings. I believe that today, and tonight, will pass peacefully – well, as peacefully as New York City can be. But there won't be any more Holiday killings. Because you are here."

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, Same time, around 11:15 a.m. At the Marriott Times Square in NYC**_

.

Her normally soft, pale face is tear-stained and reddened with unseemly blotches that adorn her cheeks. Moisture gathers in her nostrils. Her voice is breaking – both from unending sadness and anger. This betrayal has broken her.

"Kate, listen to me."

Special Agent Jordan Shaw sits at the computer in her living room, deep in the midst of an unexpected Skype session with Kate Beckett. The phone call she received a few minutes ago came out of the blue, for certain. It had been months since she had heard from her friend. And the voice on the other end of that phone call had been shattered and weak. Jordan had immediately told Kate to video call her. Some fifteen minutes later, Kate is back at her hotel room with her computer open and her friend's face staring back at her.

"She's alive, Jordan," Kate tells her friend for the umpteenth time in the past few minutes, ignoring whatever words Jordan is trying to say.

"She's been alive all this time. All this time I have been grieving. All those years. All of the tears. It was all a lie, Jordan. All of it."

"Kate –"

"She faked her own death, and didn't tell me. But she told Dad. He knew."

Those words silence the federal profiler. The call is quiet for a few seconds, as Kate – through new-falling tears – watches her friend process this new piece of information.

"Yeah, that's right Jordan," Kate finally continues, sniffling. "Even Dad knew. They both were in on it. What kind of parent does that, Jordan? What kind of _person_ does this? And she was so cold, so calculating. There was no remorse, Jordan. None whatsoever. No regrets. No apologies. It was all about her mission. All about her project. All about her. And he is no better, keeping this from me."

For her part, Jordan Shaw is holding her tongue at this moment. She recognizes immediately the tragic irony of her friend's words. All about the mission? All about her? The ex-detective/ex-federal agent could easily be describing herself – yet she doesn't realize it.

Yet.

"What do I do, Jordan?" Kate asks, surprising her friend with the question. Kate Beckett asking for help? Kate Beckett openly expressing indecision? It is a new look for the betrayed woman.

"I don't even know who I am anymore. I don't –"

"Now wait a minute, Kate," Jordan interrupts. Yes, her friend is hurting. Yes, her friend is feeling betrayed. Yes, everything she is feeling is justified. But Jordan also knows she cannot let her friend spiral too far out of control. People have made horrible, life-altering decisions while in such spirals.

"Wait a minute," Jordan Shaw repeats, for emphasis. "I'm not going to sit here and sugarcoat anything. What you have just experienced is brutal beyond belief. And I won't insult you by giving you any platitudes about understanding how you feel. But _who you are_? That isn't in question, Kate. You are not defined by your mother, or your father, or anyone else. You – of all people – should know this by now."

"I became a cop because of her –"

"No," Jordan corrects her. "You became one of the _best cops_ in the city. You became a decorated detective. You transitioned that into a federal job. No one forced you to do that. Hell, no one forces you to do anything, Kate. You know that. Anyway, from where I sit, the only thing you have done _because_ of your mother is join this Valkyrie project – which, by the way, bad parenting aside, is an ultra cool idea."

Kate has shared some of the details of the project with her friend, including her time away in Romania in the organization's form of boot camp. Sure, sharing this information is against the rules, but damn the rules right now. Nothing about this organization has been on the up and up with her, as far as Beckett is concerned.

"No, I've been nothing but a pawn," Kate tells her, ignoring her previous statements. "A piece being moved around the board. Who knows how much of my life has been nothing but the movement of a piece by my mother. This organization has connections you can't understand. Was I promoted to detective because of my results? Or were strings pulled to get me there? Was I put on certain cases because of normal procedure? Or were strings pulled to put me there? None of that is clear anymore."

Jordan Shaw nods her head, understanding the battle being fought inside Kate Beckett's head right now. She herself is fighting tears that threaten to spill out. In her time as a profiler who searches for meaning in why people do things, and predicting what they may do next – she has never run into a scenario where this level of betrayal – at such a personal level – exists.

"Kate, none of that matters now, does it?" Jordan asks suddenly. "You can't control what has happened. And I admit, this is among the worst things I can think of that a parent can do, outside of physically harming their child. But it's done, Kate. It is fresh to you now, my friend – I get it. But this is something that occurred what – fifteen, sixteen years ago? Your mother is not who you thought she was. Neither is your father. But you, Kate? Who you are is unquestioned," Jordan continues.

She knows she is on a slippery slope, pushing the conversation in this direction. But the thought has occurred to the FBI agent that – given everything that has happened – now might, in fact, be the right time to push Kate to the edge, to the precipice. Her friend is strong. She won't jump. She won't fall. She's not her father, who would fall into the bottle. But she _is_ more like her mother than she realizes.

The 'friend' in Jordan tells her to hold back.

The 'profiler' in Jordan tells her to push forward.

So, push forward she does.

"You are your own person, Kate. You don't allow anyone to control your life," Jordan continues. "You don't do anything you don't want to do. No one forces you to do anything. Your mom betrayed you. It's harsh. But you will move on. Because it is what you do, Kate. Your dad betrayed you. You will survive. Because it is what you do, Kate."

"Jordan, you don't –"

"Kate," Jordan interjects, not allowing her friend to finish. "You – of all my friends – are a true wonder. You survived your mother's tragic death. Surely you can survive her resurrection."

The words halt Kate in her tracks. She spends the next few seconds staring at the face of the woman who has become a dear and trusted friend. And suddenly, a new thought hits. One that causes her face to harden momentarily.

"Jordan," Kate asks. "You aren't part of Valkyrie, are you? You didn't know about this, did you?"

"Absolutely not, Kate," Jordan tells her. She can understand the question, given the circumstances. "The universe isn't quite that cruel."

Yet another silence befalls the duo, as they each sit with their own thoughts for the next few seconds, before Jordan breaks the silence.

"You are your own woman, Kate. No one forces you to do anything. This is your life, not anyone else's."

"You make me sound like her," Kate mutters, a new realization clouding her eyes. Yeah, her friend can see she is there – right at the cliff.

"I know, Kate," Jordan simply remarks. "It sounds like something you have told someone else, many times."

Kate nods, new tears falling, as she considers so many past conversations with a certain author. Conversations which often ended with the same refrain.

" _Castle, this is my life, not yours."_

She considers the number of times she has made decisions purely in her own interests . . . decisions that probably caused pain to one Richard Castle. Decisions which inevitably ended with the same verse from the same song.

" _Castle, this is my life, not yours."_

"I guess the apple really didn't fall too far from the tree," Kate sobs, her face now in her hands blocking new tears.

"No . . . but where it lands is what is important, Kate," Jordan tells her. "Where _you land_ is what is important."

.

 **A/N:** I have posted both chapters 14 and 15 this evening, so if you are still with me, you can go on to Chapter 15 now for the continuation of the story. We're almost at the end. I hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season . . . no pun intended (smile)


	15. Chapter 15

**Holiday – Chapter 15**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 1:25 p.m. At the Marriott Times Square in NYC**_

.

The elevator doors open, and Richard Castle exits the elevator car, taking off the baseball cap and over-sized and blue-tinted eye-glasses he has been wearing. It's not much of a disguise, but as he learned from his brief time with his father, sometimes less is more. The black wig with a ponytail is itching the back of his neck and it is all he can do not to run screaming down the hall, ripping it off.

" _She'd like that,"_ he muses to himself. _"She always said I was a ten-year old in a sugar rush."_

He has come to the hotel, against his better judgement and against her stated wishes from a day ago because he hasn't been able to reach her. Multiple missed calls in a row followed by a text . . . and suddenly he can't reach her?

He takes a chance that she is here at the hotel. History suggests that if she were on to something, she would say so.

History . . .

He shakes his head against the sadness that this single word implies for them as he approaches her door and knocks. If she is here, she will answer. He will quickly have to explain the disguise, so she knows he wasn't followed. These are the thoughts he has as he knocks a second time. Then a third time.

When she answers the door, it is not what he expects. This is a Kate Beckett he has never seen before. She looks absolutely . . . defeated.

" _No, she looks broken,"_ he thinks to himself as he walks into the room. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't question why he is here. She doesn't question his disguise. She simply steps aside, granting him access. He takes a few steps in before turning around. He watches her shut the door. She's in jeans and a pullover top. Whatever makeup she was wearing has run down her face. He quickly thinks of Alice Cooper, before pushing the thought out of his head. Something tells him this is going to be a long afternoon.

"Kate?" he begins, questioningly. She says nothing.

"I got your calls," he continues. "And your text. I called you back."

"I know," is all she says. Her voice is low, soft and distant.

" _What in the hell has happened now?"_ he thinks, gently takes her by the arm and leads her to the sleeper sofa that is in the room. He sits down, gently pulling her with him so that she sits next to him. There is about two feet of distance between them. He sits facing her, while she sits facing straight ahead. Her eyes are bloodshot. She's been crying, that's for sure. But there's another thing. They are bloodshot, and they are blank.

There is nothing there. For the first time in months, he is truly frightened for this woman.

"Talk to me, Kate," he begins again. He hesitates for a second, and then allows his hand to fall on her knee, and sit there.

"Kate, I don't –"

"She's alive, Rick," Kate tells him.

He sits staring at her, not comprehending what she is saying. How could he? Why – in any parallel universe that even his imagination could concoct – would he even consider that the 'she' that Kate is speaking of could be no other than Johanna Beckett?

"I don't understand, Kate," he begins, his voice low. He is consciously worried about spooking her. He stares at her, and she doesn't look back. He finally puts a thumb and forefinger under her chin, and gently turns her to face him.

"Kate, talk to me."

"She's alive," Kate repeats. As if that information in itself is enough.

"Who, Kate?" he asks. "Who is alive?"

Her eyes appear to darken – it's just for a second or two before it passes. But he sees it. And it causes him to shudder.

"Kate?"

"My mother," she tells him evenly, and it is as if she is staring right through him. It takes him a few seconds for her words to register.

"That's impossible," he finally remarks, clearly bothered by the declaration. Someone has been playing a game – a very ruthless and cold-hearted game – with his friend . . . his ex-lover . . . his whatever-the-hell they are now.

"Who told you this, Kate," he asks. "Who would –"

"I saw her, Rick," Kate replies, almost under her breath. "I met her this morning."

For the first time since he has met Kate Beckett, Richard Castle is truly rendered speechless. His much-admired brain has, in a sense, shut down as he tries to process this revelation. He stands, stepping away from her in disbelief.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I mean, I know –"

"I'm sure, Rick," she tells him. "It was her."

His frown gives way to a quizzical look, as he shakes his head quickly. Now he is confused. He quickly sits back down next to her, this time closer. His face one big question mark. He doesn't understand. If Johanna Beckett is alive, then this should be the absolute best, most hoped-for news that Kate Beckett could ever dream of getting.

Yet she is clearly anything but pleased with the news.

"I don't understand," he tells her. "This is great news . . . isn't it? I mean, this is something you couldn't even dream as a possibility. You should be thrilled, Kate . . . shouldn't you?"

Kate doesn't answer. But he notices her clenched fists are shaking.

"Kate, what happened? How is she alive? And why isn't this good news?"

"She faked her own death," Kate tells him, her voice growing cold. "She faked her own death, leaving Dad and me."

If she were in a better mood, Kate would laugh out loud at the caricature Richard Castle has become. The color drains from his face, as his mind – wheels turning rapidly in perfect synchronization – starts putting together the implications of this news.

"You mean this whole time . . . this whole time you thought she was dead, she was actually alive – because she faked her death and kept it from you and your father?"

"No," Kate replies. "She kept it from me."

"Excuse me?" he almost shouts in disbelief.

"You heard me," Kate tells him solemnly.

"Jim knew?" Castle asks incredulously.

" _This can't be happening,"_ he thinks to himself. Kate explains the conversation she had with Elena. How she began to wonder how a simple goon like Dick Coonan would be able to get the drop on and take out someone who had gone through the type of training Kate had. She explains how Elena dropped the bomb on her that they should go and ask Johanna that very question.

"So, your friend, Elena, she knew as well?" he asks, now realizing that his friend and ex-partner is truly alone in the world right now. "Your dad knew, and he never told you?"

"It wasn't Mom's death that sent him down the bottle," Kate replies. "It was keeping Mom's death from me that was his undoing."

Castle is quiet for a few seconds, as he runs one hand through his hair, exhaling a long breath.

"You have got to be shitting me," he says simply.

"No . . . I shit you not," she tells him with a sad chuckle. Now she is re-thinking everything. Absolutely everything over the past few years.

Did Roy Montgomery know?

Did Lanie know? Probably not. Sydney Perlmutter? He's been a medical examiner for a long time. Johanna mentioned that they had an 'in' at the medical examiner's office that helped pull off the hoax.

Dick Coonan had to know. That is obvious. But who else would he have told? Because no one keeps a secret. Everyone tells one person. At least one.

"My God . . . my entire vendetta against Bracken . . . why? For what reason? Did he ever even send someone against Mom?" she wonders aloud, as the questions race against her.

"He knows that I thought he killed Mom . . . and yet he played along?" Kate realizes.

"Why in the hell would he do that?" Castle asks aloud, his mind reeling as well. "Forget that . . . why would _your mom_ do this? I mean, leave your family? Make them believe you are dead? Why would she do that?"

"Because she is part of the Valkyrie program. And she had a mission," Kate tells him. Her eyes are sad. They are almost pleading. With those five words it is as if she is apologizing for what she knows he will soon realize. What Jordan quickly realized. That the mother and daughter are very much alike.

The knocking on the door startles both of them. Castle is the first to move, and he walks to the door, looking through the small circular window, giving him a dome view of the tall woman standing outside.

"Your friend is here," he tells Kate as he opens the door. Elena Markov walks quickly into the room, allowing Castle to close the door behind her. She makes a beeline for Kate, who still sits on the small sofa.

"First of all, Kate, understand that this was not my secret to share," Elena begins. "And recall, Kate, that you have your own secrets that I know . . . that you shared with me in Europe. I will never share those."

Kate, for her part, merely nods her head. She has already given this thought, and the one person she cannot truly be angry with is the woman standing in front of her. Elena's next words confirm her line of reasoning.

"Once you were in Valkyrie, I set in motion the events which would lead to this secret finally coming out for you, Kate," Markov begins. "That is why I put your mother's murder scene on an endless video loop in front of you . . . for months. I wanted you to see – every day, hour after hour – your mother . . . a trained Valkyrie . . . taken down by a common thug. A nobody. Someone who I know you faced. Someone I know you knew you could easily take down. I wanted you to see her lying there dead . . . day after day . . . until the right question finally broke through to you."

Elena turns her gaze to Richard Castle, who has gone to the small, mini-fridge in Kate's room and pulled out a bottled water.

"Johanna put the movement – her mission – in front of everything, Kate," Elena continues. In front of her husband, her child, her family, her former life. She chose the movement over all of that."

"Sounds a lot like me," Kate mutters aloud, realizing that she herself has fallen into the same pattern. She glances at Castle, who is now giving her an odd, but knowing look. The sadness they share in this moment is almost palpable.

"Maybe it's just in our DNA," Kate tells her, but she is looking squarely at Richard Castle as she says this. Elena's harsh rebuke pulls her attention back to the tall Russian.

"No, it is not DNA," Elena almost spits. "It is decisions. It is choice. And Kate, you can make a different decision. You can make a different choice."

Elena walks to the window, pulling back the closed curtain so that the beautiful city opens up below them. She turns back to her friend. This will be the difficult part. She can tell that Kate has not put it all together yet . . . how deep the betrayal has gone.

"Johanna is the one who blew up your apartment," Elena begins. She turns to face Castle, following the noise of the dropped water bottle hitting the ground. Kate's look is one of pure disbelief, and confusion. The Russian hates doing this to her, but now that the box has been opened, there can be no more secrets.

"She blew up your home . . . waiting until you were both within range, but still safely out of range," Elena tells her.

"She wanted to see – first hand – how you would handle this, after your rigorous training. She had been highly unimpressed with how you handled your apartment being blown up the first time, years ago by Scott Dunn."

Elena let's that piece of information hang out there until . . . there it is . . . she sees that Kate is now putting the puzzle pieces together.

"Don't look like that, Kate," Elena admonishes her for the pained expression painted across her face. "Of course your mother knew about that. She followed all of your cases, all of your exploits through the years. Waiting for the right moment to recruit you in. Which came – by the way – when you decided that the normal course of law was no longer sufficient for Mr. Dunn this summer. When you attempted to take matters into your own hands, with him back at the wharf in D.C. I must tell you, by the way, that I was impressed with your reasoning at that time."

"Wait a minute," Kate exclaims, now standing quickly as realization fully sets in. "She followed my career."

"Yes," Elena replies.

"Every case," Kate reiterates, as a quiet fury begins to build.

"Yes," her friend replies again.

"All of the cases where I am chasing her supposed killers," Kate spits out with venom. Richard Castle takes a few steps backward, and now sits on the edge of the bed in the room. He places his head in his hands, bending over. He sees what is coming. It is more brutal than anything he could ever write.

"She knew that I was chasing ghosts," Kate continues, now turning her gaze away from the author and back to Markov. "That's what you meant last summer in the park . . . when you told me I was chasing ghosts . . . and ghosts of ghosts."

"Yes," her friend replies again. There is no need for any explanation or additional superfluous words.

"My mother," Kate says, enunciating each syllable, "My mother knew I was chasing after men for a crime they did not commit. Each time I put myself in danger . . . put my friends in danger . . . she knew?"

"Yes."

"She was watching all this time?" Kate repeats.

"From here in the city," Elena tells her. Yeah, that one shakes her too. But the Russian knows this is only going to get worse.

"Roy Montgomery. He didn't have to die."

"No," Elena replies.

"And Mom let it happen," Kate looks for confirmation.

"Yes."

"She was . . . she knew all of it," Kate blurts out, shaking her head as the tears begin to flow again. Richard Castle suddenly hurtles out of the main area of the room into the small bathroom, quickly closing the door. The sounds of retching can be heard very clearly. Elena merely nods, knowing that the novelist now knows the brutal truth. A truth that is now starting to dawn on the ex-detective.

"She was testing me," Kate mutters, her voice low between sobs.

"Yes, Kate," Elena tells her, and Kate breaks completely when she sees the semblance of tears in the eyes of the tall Russian. It is the first emotional break she has ever witnessed from this woman. And she knows what this means.

"I was shot, Elena," Kate sobs quietly.

"I know, Kate," is the somber reply.

"She knew it was coming?" Kate asks, hoping against hope.

"Yes," comes the door-slamming reality.

"Part of her test was to allow me to get shot?" Kate asks again, as if needing additional clarification, as she wipes tears of pure rage away from her face.

"Yes," Elena replies.

"And if I had died?" Kate asks – but she already knows the answer. She is, after all, dealing with a monster – just as she said earlier this morning.

"Then she would have mourned you," Elena tells her. The woman is nothing if not brutally honest.

Kate's cries over the next minute or so almost break the Russian's heart in two. She knows this is a gut-punch beyond what anyone should have to go through. There is more, but she decides Kate has had enough for one day. She changes the subject quickly.

"What will you do with _him_?" Elena asks – pointing back in the direction of the bathroom, where the door is still closed, and they can hear the sounds of running water.

"That ship has sailed," Kate replies sadly, wiping the remaining remnant of tears away from her cheeks. After experiencing the shoe on the other foot, so to speak, she has a much better appreciation now for Richard Castle's point of view. She understands how deeply betrayed he must have felt over the past year.

"I will never forgive her, Elena," she tells her friend. "I will never forgive my mother. And I can now – by extension – see how Castle will never forgive me. I betrayed him – I betrayed our trust."

"Perhaps, and perhaps not," Elena replies, her face stoic. "I should remind you, Mr. Castle is not – and has never been – you."

.

 **A/N:** One more chapter – and an epilogue – to go and we are finished with this tale. My thanks again to everyone for reading, and sticking with this trilogy. I know that many began The Wonder hoping for the classic Caskett story, but hey – that would be too easy (smile) I hope everyone has enjoyed the ride across these three stories. I will post the final chapter on Christmas Eve. I hope everyone is enjoying the Christmas holiday season. Thanks for the reviews and PMs. I really do treasure the friendships many of us have developed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Holiday – Chapter 16**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

.

 **A/N:** Okay, I know I said there was one more chapter to go, but after reading and re-reading this, I decided this last segment really feels better as two separate chapters. So, this is the first of those two final chapters, and I am posting both simultaneously. When you finish Chapter 16, you can move on to Chapter 17, which will be the final chapter.

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 _ **Thursday, December 19, 2013, 7:03 p.m. At the Marriott Times Square in NYC**_

.

She awakens with a start, and a muffled groan escapes her lips as she rises out of the nightmare that has consumed her during her sleep. Lying on her left side and glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she sees is it barely evening now. She's slept for roughly four and a half hours.

Whether it is the weight distribution of the mattress or just a sixth sense, something tells her she is not alone in the bed. She should know, since it has been well over half a year since she has had anyone in her bed. One man in particular.

She slowly turns her body, and angles her neck, and looks up at the sitting form of Elena Markov. The Russian sits cross-legged in the bed, next to the lying form of her friend. Noticing she is awake, Markov gives her a smirk.

"Why do I get the impression that my presence is not the presence you hoped was in your bed?"

Kate Beckett's eyes widen momentarily, as reality lands quickly.

"Damn," she mutters, blinking away sleepiness.

"What is it?" Elena asks.

"I was kind of hoping this was just a bad dream," Kate replies. "But it's real, isn't it?"

"I am afraid so, my friend," Elena tells her.

Kate stares at her for a few seconds, nodding in agreement. They _are_ friends. At first, she felt betrayed by this woman also, but she now realizes that for all the things that she _did_ do, Elena Markov did not lie to her. True, she withheld information – life and death information – but she also orchestrated a scenario where all of this came out into the open. For this, Kate is grateful.

Well, kind of grateful. As grateful as one can be to learn that your parents are not who you thought. Not what you thought.

"Where is Castle?" she asks as she glances around the room. She remembers Elena sitting beside her in the bed as she softly cried hours ago, while Richard Castle sat at the small hotel desk next to the window, his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin as he watched the macabre story continue to unfold before his eyes.

"I'm here Kate," he tells her, sitting on the sofa opposite the desk. His legs are crossed at the ankles, and it looks like he, too, has just awakened. Probably awoke when he heard her wake from her tear-induced slumber. He pulls his large frame up from the couch, lifting his arms toward the ceiling as he stretches.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm alive," she replies. Her eyes are dark, hollowed. And swollen.

"That's a start," he tells her as he quickly goes into motion, moving toward the bed at first, and then the door.

"I didn't want to leave before I knew you were all right," he tells her. "Now that you're awake, I need to go. There are some things that I need to do."

Both women rise and extract themselves from the large king bed simultaneously, almost in synchronized fashion. It draws a small smile from the writer.

"I will take my leave at this time also, my friend," Elena tells Kate. "I, too, have things to do. But I will see you again. Soon."

Kate simply nods, noticing how both Elena and Castle are ready to make a hasty retreat now that she is awake. It makes her wonder what their conversation was like while she slept. She pushes the thought out of her head. She has so much more to consider.

The trio reaches the door before Castle turns back to face her.

"Are you going to be all right, Kate?" he asks.

"She will be fine, Mr. Castle," Elena interjects. "She has a strength she does not yet realize, or fully understand."

With that, the Russian leans forward toward her friend, and quickly, chastely puts her lips along those of her friend, giving Kate a soft kiss goodbye.

"And she is now finding this strength," she says as she opens the door and walks out, leaving a slightly stunned Kate Beckett and Richard Castle.

Castle glances at Kate, who is wide-eyed with surprise, and the retreating form of Elena Markov.

"Okay, that was so cool," Castle tells her with a knowing smirk before following Markov out the door.

"I will call you," he promises. And then he, too, is gone. And she is alone. She watches his retreating form, and he does not look back. Sighing, she closes the door and leans back into it from the inside, the back of her head resting against the door.

Yeah, she is alone.

She quickly realizes that she has nowhere to go, no one to see. There is no reason – at least for now – for her to go anywhere. She considers calling Jordan, but that idea, too, offers no comfort or relief. For the first time in her life, she feels truly isolated, lost on an island – and one not of her own making.

Against her wishes, her mind pulls up a series of images of her mother – of Johanna Beckett – lying in the alley, her face a mask of peace as she lies dead. They are images – police photographs – that she has seen hundreds of times since becoming a cop.

"All fake," she now realizes out loud. All of them staged by her mother, by Valkyrie. By this movement that has recruited her, based upon a lie.

She slowly walks to the bathroom, and stops in front of the mirror. She stares at the woman there, not recognizing her own reflection. Puffy, blank eyes. Hollow cheeks. Her hair is a disheveled mess. She glances down at the limited hotel towels provided to the room, and turns and opens the shower stall door, turning the hot water on.

She deliberately steps out of her clothes, in no hurry whatsoever. Seconds later she is in the shower, her head down, allowing the hot water to cascade down her head, her hair, and shoulders. She doesn't even bother with soap, or shampoo. The healing heat of the water and rising steam is all she needs at the moment.

She has no more tears, but is shaking with what is building to become a righteous anger. Mentally, she begins to tick off – one by one – the consequences, the victims – of this unfathomable betrayal.

Her college life and aspirations at Stanford. Shut down.

Her ambitions to become an attorney. Eliminated.

The family dynamic she thought would last forever. Shattered.

The loving, doting trust of a father. Destroyed.

And then there is Roy Montgomery. Lying dead in a hangar. Over what? A lie. Not just Roy. All of those men in that hangar shootout, killed to protect a lie.

Not a Senator, as she thought.

A lie.

She closes her eyes against the water, and immediately she is back hanging from that particular ledge, staring up at the leering, over-confident face of Cole Maddox. Almost killed that evening.

For a lie.

She instinctively reaches down, peering through the steam and streaming water at the scar on her chest. A bullet to the heart. Literally. For no good reason at all. Part of protecting a lie.

And all of this done for a woman who acted like nothing more than an acquaintance, not a mother. Kate could have been virtually anyone at that table for breakfast, for all the good it did. It was clear that Johanna's reasoning, Johanna's logic was predicated on her own needs, and nothing else. The needs of anyone else – including her own family – were not important.

The minutes pass by slowly. One minute. Then another. And another. Before long, almost fifteen – possibly twenty – minutes have passed, and the water is beginning to be lukewarm. She shuts the shower off, and steps out of the stall. Fortunately, the heater is turned on in the room, so the bathroom is warm from steam and the artificially heated air.

She stares at herself again in the mirror, still not recognizing the woman staring back at her. Frowning, she closes the lid on the toilet, turns the lights out, and sits on the closed toilet seat, closing her eyes and willing herself to think of nothing; nothing at all.

.

 _ **The Next Day, Friday Morning, December 20, 2013, 10:12 a.m. At City Hall in New York City**_

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The press and their photographers are huddled together, close to one another in the press room where they have been instructed to go. Most of them already know what this is about. No doubt it is an update on the latest Holiday murder. These press conferences have been going on now for the past three days, since the third killing. A couple of reporters have placed running bets on exactly how 'seven swans a-swimming' will play into the murder that undoubtedly occurred last evening.

As expected, the door opens, and Captain Victoria Gates enters in, looking crisp in a dark gray two-piece suit consisting of a jacket and skirt, along with a tan blouse.

"Here we go," Jamie Blackman, reporter for one of the local network stations, comments to Rebecca, his long-time friend and photographer.

Captain Gates moves quickly to the podium set-up, and stands behind the microphone. She pauses to adjust its height and angle for herself.

"Good morning, everyone" she begins. "I am pleased to inform you that an arrest was made yesterday morning by the officers of the 12th Precinct. This arrest was kept out of the news for good reason. I am happy to report to you that there was no murder yesterday – either in the afternoon or evening, or wee hours of this morning – that followed the pattern or motif of the Holiday killer. After the arrest yesterday, we did not anticipate another murder occurring. This is over. We have the Holiday killer in custody. The suspect in question is one Theresa Candela.

The buzz is the press room almost drowns Captain Gates words, and the pops from the cameras creates a symphony of noise.

"I want to commend the entire New York Police Department, and the officers of the 12th Precinct in particular, for stellar police work in this case. At this moment, we will not entertain any questions. There will be another press conference later this afternoon at 3pm, where we will provide more details and answer your questions."

Amid a cacophony of noise, the captain walks away from the podium, from the cameras and out the door, ignoring the shouted questions from the reporters left gaping in the press room.

"Has anyone heard from Kate Beckett?" she quickly asks the three detectives walking alongside her, putting the previous scene behind her.

"No sir, not a word," Detective Javier Esposito replies. Kevin Ryan merely shakes his head.

"It looks like she has disappeared again," Detective Esposito mumbles, almost to himself. He is worried about his friend. She said she would check in. She hasn't. And Castle has not replied either, not since acknowledging his text yesterday morning. Javier would have bet money that both of those people – Kate and Castle – would have been chopping at the bit to get more information once they knew that the killer had been caught. He is stunned to be proven wrong.

"She will be back," Gates dismisses, with a slight wave of her hand.

"Perhaps," Detective Esposito mumbles. Three heads turn to face him.

"I don't know why, but I have a feeling Beckett is gone for good this time," Esposito continues.

"Why do you say that, bro?" Kevin Ryan asks.

"I don't know. Just a gut feeling," his friend replies.

"I hate your gut feelings," Ryan answers.

"Me too," Esposito half smiles briefly before the smile leaves his face. "I mean it, Kevin. I don't think she is coming back."

Gates stops walking, bringing the trio alongside her to a stop as well. She gazes at the three of them, before looking squarely at Detective Brenda Hansen.

"Does it matter, sir?" Hansen replies. "It's over. That's what is important."

"Not quite over yet, Detective," Gates reminds her. "Ms. Candela was working with someone else. Someone killed her husband in that bathroom at The Dugout. That means that someone likely helped her kill the others."

"I agree," Hansen tells her boss. "She is ruthless, but she doesn't strike me as the type to be able to carve letters into a human body."

"Well, she will give us a name soon enough," Gates smiles. "She will talk. They always do."

.

 _ **Later that morning, Friday December 20, 2013, 11:25 a.m. At Finn Rourke's bar in the city**_

.

Richard Castle smiles as he takes in the smell of carpentry and construction inside Rourke's establishment. The home base of the mobster is open, but parts are still under renovation from the bombing at the hands of Scott Dunn. A few new wrinkles Rourke has decided to put in after the bombing. The older man sits in his normal chair at a table in the midst of the large room, watching the conversation at the bar with a keen, parental interest.

Castle had told Eliza he was coming to talk, and the younger woman – to her credit – sensed what was coming. Or at least what she thought was coming.

"I'm going away for a while, Eliza," he begins. He sits facing her, maintain direct eye contact with her.

"For how long?" she asks, her voice quiet.

"Honestly, I don't know," he admits. "I just need to get away. You were right. I'm not a cop. But I don't know if I'm a writer anymore. I don't have a story to tell. What does that make me?"

She simply takes him in momentarily. This both is – and is not – what she anticipated. She figured this would be a blow-off meeting. However, that he would choose to do it here – in front of her father – instead of a less . . . hostile public setting makes her admire him all the more, if not grudgingly so.

"My entire world has been turned upside down and inside out," he continues.

"Heartbreak is tough, Rick," she tells him. She's given him time. Months now. It appears that wasn't enough.

"My heart isn't broken, Eliza," he disputes. "It's . . . it's more like it is just _empty_ ," he tells her, with emphasis on the last word. Kate's revelation about her mother has been a gut punch to him. And it's a revelation – a secret – that he cannot share with the woman sitting with him now. Not that she would believe it. He isn't sure he believes it, and he has witnessed it first-hand.

The realization that Kate has been betrayed by both her mother and father; that her motivation for the last decade and a half has been rendered a moot point; that all of their adventures and every one of their cases – not to mention the love they shared for a year – all of that existed because of a massive, heartless lie by two people. Two people that Kate Beckett trusted implicitly.

It forces him to consider awkward and unwelcome thoughts about his own life. A life where his own father has lived a life of lies as a spy; away from his son, away from the mother of his son. He considers the obvious – and painful fact; both her mother and his father willingly – and, it seems, fairly easily - chose their own personal ambitions over their family.

Over their children.

"There are parts of my life," he tells her, continuing onward, "that I have foolishly considered to be exciting. I considered them to be great chapters in a great story. In reality, those parts are slaps to the face that I ignored, that I should have embraced and dealt with ages ago."

"What will you do?" she asks.

"Grow up, for one," he tells her with a small chuckle. "I'm sorry, Eliza. I don't know how long I will be gone. And I don't know what I'm going to be doing for –"

"It's okay, Rick" she interrupts, placing a hand along his forearm. "I went into this . . . friendship with my eyes wide open. I knew you were on the rebound, and were still bouncing along. If nothing else, this last week or two has only reaffirmed this to me. No hard feelings, trust me."

The disappointment is evident in her voice, but her eyes tell him that she is being on the level with him. Yes, she has been hoping for more, but preparing for less. And in this case, preparation has been time and effort well-spent.

He stands, and pulls her into a tight, lengthy hug.

"I hope you have a beautiful life, Eliza," he tells her. "You deserve it. And I hope to see more of it, be a part of it somehow in the future. As it turns out, I have discovered that I don't really have a lot of friends – true friends that I can trust. I count you among that very short list.

"It is my pleasure," she tells him, smiling. "I consider that list to be a place of honor, indeed."

He tightens the embrace and then lets her go, slowly walking through the bar toward the front door. He passes Finn Rourke, and gives the man a short nod, which is returned by Eliza's father.

"That could have gone worse," Castle thinks to himself, as he puts distance between himself and the establishment he has come to enjoy quite a bit.

The older man watches Castles departure, then stands himself, and walks slowly toward the bar where his daughter watches his approach intently. Her eyes give nothing away.

"Well, Lizzy," Finn begins, "How did that go?"

"About as expected," Eliza Rourke replies, smiling easily. "I like Richard Castle, but it was always a long-shot. He has years invested in another. That investment does not wither away easily."

"So, he is going back to the detective?" her father asks.

"Honestly, I don't know, Dad," Eliza tells him, a quizzical look on her face. "Something is going on. Something he won't tell me about. He only hinted at it. But I believe that our friend is at somewhat of an identity crisis."

"Weak man," Finn Rourke spits in disgust. "At his age, those childish dilemmas should be long past him. He is lucky you do not take his worthless life."

His daughter chuckles, with an easy laugh that the author in question had come to enjoy, but her eyes narrow and darken.

"I believe there has been enough taking of life these past weeks," she remarks, and there is a steel glint of determination, of accomplishment in her eyes. Her father simply nods his head in agreement.

"Ah, my Lizzy, you have certainly proved yourself with this project of ours," Finn smiles, and the pride painted on his face is one only seen on the face of a parent. "Not with me, of course. I already knew what you were capable of. But many of my newer men are younger. They are new to this business. It was important for them to see this side of you, my dear."

The coiled, snake-like smile on Eliza Rourke's face pleases her father, but would appall the man who has just left the bar. She likes Richard Castle, yes. Of that, there is no doubt. But in the end, she is more than content to lose him, if it means gaining stature in her father's business – proving herself to be equal to the task he assigned her. And that was to get rid of some of his competition and those rising up to oppose him. And the Holiday killings did just that.

"When this place was almost destroyed by that madman who was after Mr. Castle this summer, I knew we needed to do something," Rourke muses aloud, remembering his conversation with Castle.

"Even Mr. Castle recognized that," he continues. "Even he – someone outside the fold – realized that there would be those who mistook the bombing of my fair establishment to be an attack on _me_ , not an attack on Mr. Castle. There would be some who would see that as an attack that proved we were suddenly vulnerable. So, your plan to take out some of these people was quite brilliant, actually."

"Most important was the timing," she replies, no longer smiling. "We had to allow a bit of time to pass, to allow those thoughts to fester so we could see where – or rather, who – they would be coming from."

Her father pulls out a barstool, and sits at the bar next to his daughter. She is already pouring him a short glass of whiskey on ice, placing it in front of him.

"The idea though, Lizzy, to disguise the . . . dismissals . . . of my enemies and potential detractors within a serial killing spree . . . that was brilliant. Just brilliant."

"Thank you, Dad," she tells him, bowing almost imperceptibly in deference to her father. His voice is low as he continues, offering a glance over his shoulder.

"And the Christmas song theme . . ." he whistles with a smile.

"I can't actually take credit for that one," she tells her father. "Rick was whistling that song when we decorated the Christmas tree over there, right after Thanksgiving," she says, pointing at the large Christmas tree in the customer sitting area.

"And setting up Ms. Candela – that, too was a stroke of genius, daughter," he beams proudly.

"Well, that accomplished two objectives," she nods. "First of all, it threw anyone searching for the killer off our scent, pointing the finger at someone else – someone far away from your business –"

" _Our_ business, daughter," he corrects.

"Thank you . . . _our_ business," she agrees, then continues. "It placed the blame squarely on Ms. Candela. And by carving the name of the detective's mother on the bodies, it was a message to the detective, to bring the detective back from wherever she had gone, so I could see – once and for all – whether or not Richard was finally over her or not. Whether or not my relationship with him ever had a real chance."

"Two birds, one stone," her father smiles.

"I actually have Richard to thank for that also," she reminds him, and he nods knowingly. "I asked him, once, what were the most memorable cases he worked on. The cases that stayed with him. The idea of a mother arranging the kidnapping of her own daughter stuck with him – probably because he has a daughter. Finding Candela, planting the idea that her ex-husband wanted custody, pushing her buttons until she reached out to certain sources . . . I admit that took a little more time than I desired, but in the end, that delay opened up the holiday-themed killings."

"And those holiday-themed killings ensured that no one suspected the real reason for the deaths," Rourke reminds them. "No one realized these were simple executions. They only saw what you wanted them to see."

"The acts of a serial madman," Eliza agrees.

"Careful daughter," the older man chuckles, "You are talking about yourself, you know . . ."

"Anyone who died deserved it," Eliza mentions, and again her expression darkens. Rourke smiles proudly, knowing that someday – when he passes on – his business will fall into good hands, and woe be to anyone who crosses his daughter at that time.

"What about the detective?" he asks.

"It was never my intention to kill Kate Beckett, Dad," she tells him. "You know that. I just wanted her here, back in the picture, so I could see Rick's reaction. To see if he was still stuck on her. I did not want to fall too hard for him and end up losing him when the detective returned someday. And there was no doubt in my mind that she _would return_ someday. Someday unexpected. So, I orchestrated her return, on _my_ terms, in _my_ timeframe."

The older, grizzled man throws down the last of the drink in the tumbler, exhaling a happy, satisfied breath as he finishes. He places the empty tumbler on the bar counter, and Eliza whisks it away immediately. They smile at each other for a few seconds, each lost in their own thoughts.

"And what about the Candela woman?" he finally asks. "Will you leave an innocent woman in jail?"

"Oh, she is _far_ from an innocent woman," his daughter remarks, a bit of fiery humor in her voice. "And she won't be in jail for very long."

"I thought you said there had been enough killing," Finn asks, a look of bemused confusion on his face.

"True," she replies. "But rule number one . . ."

"No loose ends," he smiles, pushing himself away from the bar counter, and stands. Leaning across the counter, he places a kiss of the cheek of his daughter, knowing the Westies are in good hands some day when he leaves the scene.


	17. Chapter 17

**Holiday – Epilogue**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.

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 **A/N:** Last chapter. Thanks to everyone. Enjoy cookies and milk for Santa!

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 _ **Saturday, December 21, 2013, 4:48 p.m. At JFK Airport outside New York City**_

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"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Rodgers?" the flight attendant asks.

Richard Castle sits in the last row of first-class, in the aisle seat on the left side of the plane. He sips on the pre-flight rum and coke that has just been deposited on his portable tray at his seat.

"No, thank you very much," he replies affably, but his eyes are distant. He leans over the empty window seat, and stares out the window at the newly falling snow that dusts the wings and the runway. He is lost in thoughts of the past months, and in particular, the past few days. He shakes his head. Not even in his most audacious book could he make up a story this . . . this tragic.

"Is this seat taken," the voice above him and to his right asks. He glances upward into the face of Kate Beckett. The face is familiar. The hair is not. Nor are the eyes. The hair is short, back to a neck-length cut similar to the style she wore years go – when they first met. The eyes are hidden behind lightly-brown tinted glasses.

"I wasn't sure you were coming," he tells her, standing quickly to give her room. She has no carry-on, save her purse.

"No luggage," he asks.

"Oh, I have plenty of luggage," she chuckles sadly. "None that fits in a suitcase, though."

He chuckles softly himself. Truer, and more poetic words, have never been spoken. She has plenty of luggage indeed.

"Don't we all?" he muses to himself.

She sits next to him, adjusting her purse, then pulls the seat all the way up. She sets her belt buckle in place, then places her hands in her lap – unsure of herself. It is a new look for her.

The seconds turn into minutes, and they allow the time to pass in silence. Minutes later, the flight attendant announces that the doors have been closed, and seconds later the plane begins to move, being pushed backward away from the terminal gate.

"Flight 100 to London Heathrow, with connecting service to Bucharest Romania is now ready for departure," the airline captain crackles over the intercom.

"A hundred million dollars of technology, and they can't fix a simple intercom system," Castle mumbles aloud, breaking the silence.

"Not the most comforting thought, is it?" she adds.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do, Kate?" he asks. Before she can answer, the flight attendant appears out of nowhere.

"Ms. Kabaeva, is there anything I can get you to drink before take-off?" she asks.

"Just water, please, no ice," Kate replies. Castle waits until the flight attendant is out of earshot before continuing.

"Ah, still Svetlana, I see," he smiles, talking in a low voice.

"I thought you liked her," she smiles in return. "And to answer your question, Rick, I'm not sure of anything anymore."

"Well, it's not too late to change your mind," he tells her.

"A closed door and a moving plane says otherwise," she replies, but her smile is still there. Still genuine. "I have spent five years running away from you. Even when we were together, I was still running away from you. It's time I try running away with you, for a change."

"I thought we were starting over," he reminds her.

They have agreed on this – kind of a control-alt-delete, suggested by Jordan Shaw. Get away. Get away from New York. Away from the precinct and the friendships there.

Get away from every piece of history they have, outside of family. And even family are being put aside for the moment. If they are to do this, to really try this – they want no outside 'help', for all it has done. If they can't do this together, then they can't do this – period.

"I always wanted to see Bucharest," she tells him. "I didn't get to see it when I was . . . I didn't get to see it this summer or fall. I'm glad I get to see it with you."

"New to me, too," he agrees. "It will be fun to actually court you. No writing for me, no cases for you. It's going to be weird."

"Weird sounds pretty good right about now, Rick," she tells him, stoically. They fall back into a comfortable silence.

"I booked two rooms for us," he tells her, breaking the silence. She smiles, both comforted and disappointed by this news. But she appreciates what he is trying to do for them, for her. For himself. Start over. No preconceived ideas or expectations. She smiles sadly to herself as she realizes that they never really dated. She never gave him the opportunity to wine and dine her the right way. Or he never took the opportunity.

Does is matter which is more accurate?

In the end, she decides it does not, simply grateful for the undeserved second chance the universe has granted them. The best Christmas present indeed.

"I should ask _you_ , Rick," she finally asks. "Are _you_ sure about this? I mean, what about Martha? What about Alexis?"

"Mother and Alexis are grown women," he states proudly, then adds almost as an afterthought, "Well, Alexis more-so than Mother."

It draws a knowing chuckle from both of them. A minute later, her hand falls comfortably into his as the plane begins to accelerate down the runway, and seconds later, lifts into the air.

"Have you spoken with your mother or father?" he asks. He has to ask. It has been weighing on him.

She looks away, out the window at the clouds that now engulf the large plane as it banks eastward, and mutters under her breath, "I have no mother or father."

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 _ **Wednesday, January 1, 2014, 12:33 a.m. In the parking garage of an office building in New York City**_

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Her short heels click on the pavement surface below, as she wraps her long, fur and cloth coat tighter around her. The biting New York wind hasn't reached the parking garage, but it is still cold. The New Year's party was a rousing success, and it is still in full swing back in the building behind her. But she made her appearance, stayed long enough to ring in the new year – but now it is time to go. She has things to do before the new year begins in earnest tomorrow.

She doesn't hear the soft, silent footsteps that creep up behind her, quickly overtaking her as she gets to her car. It is a small, soft hand that clasps itself over her nose and mouth – tightly, expertly – preventing her from making anything more than a slightly muffled sound that no one will hear.

The pain in her lower back, on the side, that pierces a kidney is both sharp and blunt at the same time. Only now does she smell the perfume on the hand over her mouth. The familiar scent tells her all she needs to know as her muffled scream is completely blocked by the hand as a second sharp plunge in the opposite side of her back assaults her.

The arms now holding her upright are strong and sure, and the pain begins to dull as she struggles to focus her eyes on her surroundings. She knows that it is fitting that it ends here, in a garage, in this fashion.

As unconsciousness begins to overtake her, she hears the familiar voice whisper in her ear.

"For Kate," Elena Markov whispers, and slowly leads Johanna Beckett to the ground, laying her softly there. She stands over her, knowing that the soon-to-be lifeless eyes see her, and recognize her. A minute later, she leans over, putting a finger to verify the lack of pulse. She pulls out a remote start key, and clicks it to open the trunk of the car she has parked next to Johanna's vehicle. She picks up the body, easily holding the smaller woman, and dumps her into the trunk.

The body will never be found. And no one will search for her for very long. For Johanna Beckett has been dead for a long, long time.

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A/N: Thanks for staying with this story – it was over three years in the making between these three interlocked tales. I know this ending will please some, and disappoint others. Castle and Kate were (are) such polarizing characters, and very, very few people are ambiguous about them. While most people want a Caskett story, many are clearly for Kate, others for Castle. I kind of liked the idea that Kate was the way she was for a different reason than was shown in the series. And I like the idea that all of us – warts and all – can embrace redemption when it presents itself.

I hope the holiday season is precious and wonderful for all of us. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.


End file.
